THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


The  Last  Trail 


ZANE  GREY 


The 
Last  Trail 


WALTER  J.  BLACK,  INC 


COPYRIGHT,    1909,   BY   A.  L.   BURT   COMPANY 


By  arrangement  with   Grosset  &>  Dunlap 


PRINTED    AND    BOUND    IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    OF    AMERICA 


PS 
35)3 


1909 


The  Last  Trail 


31G4G69 


CHAPTER  I 


TWILIGHT  of  a  certain  summer  day,  many  years  ago,  shaded 
softly  down  over  the  wild  Ohio  valley  bringing  keen  anxiety  to 
a  traveler  on  the  lonely  river  trail.  He  had  expected  to  reach 
Fort  Henry  with  his  party  on  this  night,  thus  putting  a  wel- 
come end  to  the  long,  rough,  hazardous  journey  through  the 
wilderness;  but  the  swift,  on-coming  dusk  made  it  imperative  to 
halt.  The  narrow,  forest-skirted  trail,  difficult  to  follow  in  broad 
daylight,  apparently  led  into  gloomy  aisles  in  the  woods.  His 
guide  had  abandoned  him  that  morning,  making  excuse  that  his 
services  were  no  longer  needed;  his  teamster  was  new  to  the 
frontier,  and,  altogether,  the  situation  caused  him  much  un- 
easiness. 

"I  wouldn't  so  much  mind  another  night  in  camp,  if  the  guide 
had  not  left  us,"  he  said  in  a  low  tone  to  the  teamster. 

That  worthy  shook  his  shaggy  head,  and  growled  while  he 
began  unhitching  the  horses. 

"Uncle,"  said  a  young  man,  who  had  clambered  out  from  the 
wagon,  "we  must  be  within  a  few  miles  of  Fort  Henry." 

"How  d'ye  know  we're  near  the  fort?"  interrupted  the  team- 
ster, "or  safe,  either,  fer  thet  matter?  I  don't  know  this  country." 

"The  guide  assured  me  we  could  easily  make  Fort  Henry 
by  sundown." 

"Thet  guide!  I  tell  ye,  Mr.  Sheppard " 

"Not  so  loud.  Do  not  alarm  my  daughter,"  cautioned  the  man 
who  had  been  called  Sheppard. 


2  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

"Did  ye  notice  any  thin'  queer  about  thet  guide?"  asked  the 
teamster,  lowering  his  voice.  "Did  ye  see  how  oneasy  he  was 
last  night?  Did  it  strike  ye  he  left  us  in  a  hurry,  kind  of  ex- 
cited like,  in  spite  of  his  offhand  manner?" 

"Yes,  he  acted  odd,  or  so  it  seemed  to  me,"  replied  Sheppard. 
"How  about  you,  Will?" 

"Now  that  I  think  of  it,  I  believe  he  was  queer.  He  behaved 
like  a  man  who  expected  somebody,  or  feared  something  might 
happen.  I  fancied,  however,  that  it  was  simply  the  manner  of 
a  woodsman." 

"Wai,  I  hev  my  opinion,"  said  the  teamster,  in  a  gruff  whisper. 
"Ye  was  in  a  hurry  to  be  a-goin',  an'  wouldn't  take  no  advice. 
The  fur-trader  at  Fort  Pitt  didn't  give  this  guide  Jenks  no  good 
send  off.  Said  he  wasn't  well-known  round  Pitt,  'cept  he  could 
handle  a  knife  some." 

"What  is  your  opinion?"  asked  Sheppard,  as  the  teamster 
paused. 

"Wai,  the  valley  below  Pitt  is  full  of  renegades,  outlaws  an' 
hoss-thieves.  The  redskins  ain't  so  bad  as  they  used  to  be,  but 
these  white  fellers  are  wusser'n  ever.  This  guide  Jenks  might  be 
in  with  them,  that's  all.  Mebbe  I'm  wrong.  I  hope  so.  The  way 
he  left  us  looks  bad." 

"We  won't  borrow  trouble.  If  we  have  come  all  this  way  with- 
out seeing  either  Indian  or  outlaw — in  fact,  without  incident — I 
feel  certain  we  can  perform  the  remainder  of  the  journey  in 
safety."  Then  Mr.  Sheppard  raised  his  voice.  "Here,  Helen,  you 
lazy  girl,  come  out  of  that  wagon.  We  want  some  supper.  Will, 
you  gather  some  firewood,  and  we'll  soon  give  this  gloomy  little 
glen  a  more  cheerful  aspect." 

As  Mr.  Sheppard  turned  toward  the  canvas-covered  wagon  a 
girl  leaped  lightly  down  beside  him.  She  was  nearly  as  tall  as  he. 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  3 

"Is  this  Fort  Henry?"  she  asked,  cheerily,  beginning  to  dance 
around  him.  "Where's  the  inn?  I'm  so  hungry.  How  glad  I  am 
to  get  out  of  that  wagon!  I'd  like  to  run.  Isn't  this  a  lonesome, 
lovely  spot?" 

A  camp-fire  soon  crackled  with  hiss  and  sputter,  and  fragrant 
wood-smoke  filled  the  air.  Steaming  kettle,  and  savory  steaks 
of  venison  cheered  the  hungry  travelers,  making  them  forget 
for  the  time  the  desertion  of  their  guide  and  the  fact  that  they 
might  be  lost.  The  last  glow  faded  entirely  out  of  the  western 
sky.  Night  enveloped  the  forest,  and  the  little  glade  was  a 
bright  spot  in  the  gloom. 

The  flickering  light  showed  Mr.  Sheppard  to  be  a  well-pre- 
served old  man  with  gray  hair  and  ruddy,  kindly  face.  The 
nephew  had  a  boyish,  frank  expression.  The  girl  was  a  spendid 
specimen  of  womanhood.  Her  large,  laughing  eyes  were  as  dark 
as  the  shadows  beneath  the  trees. 

Suddenly  a  quick  start  on  Helen's  part  interrupted  the  merry 
flow  of  conversation.  She  sat  bolt  upright  with  half -averted  face. 

"Cousin,  what  is  the  matter?"  asked  Will,  quickly. 

Helen  remained  motionless. 

"My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Sheppard  sharply. 

"I  heard  a  footstep,"  she  whispered,  pointing  with  trembling 
finger  toward  the  impenetrable  blackness  beyond  the  camp-fire. 

All  could  hear  a  soft  patter  on  the  leaves.  Then  distinct  foot- 
falls broke  the  silence. 

The  tired  teamster  raised  his  shaggy  head  and  glanced  fear- 
fully around  the  glade.  Mr.  Sheppard  and  Will  gazed  doubt- 
fully toward  the  foliage;  but  Helen  did  not  change  her  position. 
The  travelers  appeared  stricken  by  the  silence  and  solitude  of 
the  place.  The  faint  hum  of  insects,  and  the  low  moan  of  the 
night  wind,  seemed  accentuated  by  the  almost  painful  stillness. 


4  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

"A  panther,  most  likely,"  suggested  Sheppard,  in  a  voice 
which  he  intended  should  be  reassuring.  "I  saw  one  to-day 
slinking  along  the  trail." 

"I'd  better  get  my  gun  from  the  wagon,"  said  Will. 

"How  dark  and  wild  it  is  here!"  exclaimed  Helen  nervously. 
"I  believe  I  was  frightened.  Perhaps  I  fancied  it — there!  Again 
—listen.  Ah!" 

Two  tall  figures  emerged  from  the  darkness  into  the  circle  of 
light,  and  with  swift,  supple  steps  gained  the  camp-fire  before 
any  of  the  travelers  had  time  to  move.  They  were  Indians,  and 
the  brandishing  of  their  tomahawks  proclaimed  that  they  were 
hostile. 

"Ugh!"  grunted  the  taller  savage,  as  he  looked  down  upon  the 
defenseless,  frightened  group. 

As  the  menacing  figures  stood  in  the  glare  of  the  fire  gazing 
at  the  party  with  shifty  eyes,  they  presented  a  frightful  appear- 
ance. Fierce  lineaments,  all  the  more  so  because  of  bars  of  paint, 
the  hideous,  shaven  heads  adorned  with  tufts  of  hair  holding  a 
single  feather,  sinewy,  copper-colored  limbs  suggestive  of  action 
and  endurance,  the  general  aspect  of  untamed  ferocity,  appalled 
the  travelers  and  chilled  their  blood. 

Grunts  and  chuckles  manifested  the  satisfaction  with  which 
the  Indians  fell  upon  the  half-finished  supper.  They  caused  it 
to  vanish  with  astonishing  celerity,  and  resembled  wolves  rather 
than  human  beings  in  their  greediness. 

Helen  looked  timidly  around  as  if  hoping  to  see  those  who 
would  aid,  and  the  savages  regarded  her  with  ill  humor.  A 
movement  on  the  part  of  any  member  of  the  group  caused 
muscular  hands  to  steal  toward  the  tomahawks. 

Suddenly  the  larger  savage  clutched  his  companion's  knee. 
Then  lifting  his  hatchet,  shook  it  with  a  significant  gesture  in 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  5 

Sheppard's  face,  at  the  same  time  putting  a  finger  on  his  lips 
to  enjoin  silence.  Both  Indians  became  statuesque  in  their  im- 
mobility. They  crouched  in  an  attitude  of  listening,  with  heads 
bent  on  one  side,  nostrils  dilated,  and  mouths  open. 

One,  two,  three  moments  passed.  The  silence  of  the  forest 
appeared  to  be  unbroken;  but  ears  as  keen  as  those  of  a  deer 
had  detected  some  sound.  The  larger  savage  dropped  noise- 
lessly to  the  ground,  where  he  lay  stretched  out  with  his  ear 
to  the  ground.  The  other  remained  immovable;  only  his  beady 
eyes  gave  signs  of  life,  and  these  covered  every  point. 

Finally  the  big  savage  rose  silently,  pointed  down  the  dark 
trail,  and  strode  out  of  the  circle  of  light.  His  companion  fol- 
lowed close  at  his  heels.  The  two  disappeared  in  the  black 
shadows  like  specters,  as  silently  as  they  had  come. 

"Well!"  breathed  Helen. 

"I  am  immensely  relieved!"  exclaimed  Will. 

"What  do  you  make  of  such  strange  behavior?"  Sheppard 
asked  of  the  teamster. 

"I  'spect  they  got  wind  of  somebody;  most  likely  thet  guide, 
an  '11  be  back  again.  If  they  ain't,  it's  because  they  got  switched 
off  by  some  signs  or  tokens,  skeered,  perhaps,  by  the  scent  of 
the  wind." 

Hardly  had  he  ceased  speaking  when  again  the  circle  of  light 
was  invaded  by  stalking  forms. 

"I  thought  so!  Here  comes  the  skulkin'  varmints,"  whispered 
the  teamster. 

But  he  was  wrong.  A  deep,  calm  voice  spoke  the  single  word : 
"Friends." 

Two  men  in  the  brown  garb  of  woodsmen  approached.  One 
approached  the  travelers;  the  other  remained  in  the  background, 
leaning  upon  a  long,  black  rifle. 


6  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

Thus  exposed  to  the  glare  of  the  flames,  the  foremost  woods- 
man presented  a  singularly  picturesque  figure.  His  costume  was 
the  fringed  buckskins  of  the  border.  Fully  six  feet  tall,  this 
lithe-limbed  young  giant  had  something  of  the  wild,  free  grace 
of  the  Indian  in  his  posture. 

He  surveyed  the  wondering  travelers  with  dark,  grave  eyes. 

"Did  the  reddys  do  any  mischief?"  he  asked. 

"No,  they  didn't  harm  us,"  replied  Sheppard.  "They  ate  our 
supper,  and  slipped  off  into  the  woods  without  so  much  as 
touching  one  of  us.  But,  indeed,  sir,  we  are  mighty  glad  to  see 

you." 

Will  echoed  this  sentiment,  and  Helen's  big  eyes  were  fastened 
upon  the  stranger  in  welcome  and  wonder. 

"We  saw  your  fire  blazin'  through  the  twilight,  an'  came  up 
just  in  time  to  see  the  Injuns  make  off." 

"Might  they  not  hide  in  the  bushes  and  shoot  us?"  asked 
Will,  who  had  listened  to  many  a  border  story  at  Fort  Pitt.  "It 
seems  as  if  we'd  make  good  targets  in  this  light." 

The  gravity  of  the  woodsman's  face  relaxed. 

"You  will  pursue  them?"  asked  Helen. 

"They've  melted  into  the  night-shadows  long  ago,"  he  re- 
plied. "Who  was  your  guide?" 

"I  hired  him  at  Fort  Pitt.  He  left  us  suddenly  this  morning. 
A  big  man,  with  black  beard  and  bushy  eyebrows.  A  bit  of  his 
ear  had  been  shot  or  cut  out,"  Sheppard  replied. 

"Jenks,  one  of  Bing  Legget's  border-hawks." 

"You  have  his  name  right.  And  who  may  Bing  Legget  be?" 

"He's  an  outlaw.  Jenks  has  been  tryin'  to  lead  you  into  a 
trap.  Likely  he  expected  those  Injuns  to  show  up  a  day  or  two 
ago.  Somethin'  went  wrong  with  the  plan,  I  reckon.  Mebbc  he 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  7 

was  waitin'  for  five  Shawnees,  an'  mebbe  he'll  never  see  three 
of  'em  again." 

Something  suggestive,  cold,  and  grim,  in  the  last  words  did 
not  escape  the  listeners. 

"How  far  are  we  from  Fort  Henry?"  asked  Sheppard. 

"Eighteen  miles  as  a  crow  flies;  longer  by  trail." 

"Treachery!"  exclaimed  the  old  man.  "We  were  no  more  than 
that  this  morning.  It  is  indeed  fortunate  that  you  found  us.  I 
take  it  you  are  from  Fort  Henry,  and  will  guide  us  there?  I 
am  an  old  friend  of  Colonel  Zane's.  He  will  appreciate  any  kind- 
ness you  may  show  us.  Of  course  you  know  him?" 

"I  am  Jonathan  Zane." 

Sheppard  suddenly  realized  that  he  was  facing  the  most  cele- 
brated scout  on  the  border.  In  Revolutionary  times  Zane's  fame 
had  extended  even  to  the  far  Atlantic  Colonies. 

"And  your  companion?"  asked  Sheppard  with  keen  interest. 
He  guessed  what  might  be  told.  Border  lore  coupled  Jonathan 
Zane  with  a  strange  and  terrible  character,  a  border  Nemesis,  a 
mysterious,  shadowy,  elusive  man,  whom  few  pioneers  ever  saw, 
but  of  whom  all  knew. 

"Wetzel,"  answered  Zane. 

With  one  accord  the  travelers  gazed  curiously  at  Zane's  silent 
companion.  In  the  dim  background  of  the  glow  cast  by  the 
fire,  he  stood  a  gigantic  figure,  dark,  quiet,  and  yet  with  some- 
thing intangible  in  his  shadowy  outline. 

Suddenly  he  appeared  to  merge  into  the  gloom  as  if  he  really 
were  a  phantom.  A  warning,  "Hist!"  came  from  the  bushes. 

With  one  swift  kick  Zane  scattered  the  camp-fire. 

The  travelers  waited  with  bated  breaths.  They  could  hear 
nothing  save  the  beating  of  their  own  hearts;  they  could  not 
even  see  each  other. 


8  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

"Better  go  to  sleep,"  came  in  Zane's  calm  voice.  What  a  relief 
it  was!  "We'll  keep  watch,  an'  at  daybreak  guide  you  to  Fort 
Henry." 


CHAPTER  II 


COLONEL  ZANE,  a  rugged,  stalwart  pioneer,  with  a  strong,  dark 
face,  sat  listening  to  his  old  friend's  dramatic  story.  At  its  close 
a  genial  smile  twinkled  in  his  fine  dark  eyes. 

"Well,  well,  Sheppard,  no  doubt  it  was  a  thrilling  adventure 
to  you,"  he  said.  "It  might  have  been  a  little  more  interesting, 
and  doubtless  would,  had  I  not  sent  Wetzel  and  Jonathan  to 
look  you  up." 

"You  did  ?  How  on  earth  did  you  know  I  was  on  the  border  ? 
I  counted  much  on  the  surprise  I  should  give  you." 

"My  Indian  runners  leave  Fort  Pitt  ahead  of  any  travelers, 
and  acquaint  me  with  particulars." 

"I  remembered  a  fleet-looking  Indian  who  seemed  to  be  ask- 
ing for  information  about  us,  when  we  arrived  at  Fort  Pitt.  I 
am  sorry  I  did  not  take  the  fur-trader's  advice  in  regard  to  the 
guide.  But  I  was  in  such  a  hurry  to  come,  and  didn't  feel  able 
to  bear  the  expense  of  a  raft  or  boat  that  we  might  come  by 
river.  My  nephew  brought  considerable  gold,  and  I  all  my  earthly 
possessions." 

"All's  well  that  ends  well,"  replied  Colonel  Zane  cheerily. 
"But  we  must  thank  Providence  that  Wetzel  and  Jonathan  came 
up  in  the  nick  of  time." 

"Indeed,  yes.  I'm  not  likely  to  forget  those  fierce  savages.  How 
they  slipped  off  into  the  darkness!  I  wonder  if  Wetzel  pursued 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  9 

them?  He  disappeared  last  night,  and  we  did  not  see  him  again. 
In  fact  we  hardly  had  a  fair  look  at  him.  I  question  if  I  should 
recognize  him  now,  unless  by  his  great  stature." 

"He  was  ahead  of  Jonathan  on  the  trail.  That  is  Wetzel's 
way.  In  times  of  danger  he  is  seldom  seen,  yet  is  always  near. 
But  come,  let  us  go  out  and  look  around.  I  am  running  up  a 
log  cabin  which  will  come  in  handy  for  you." 

They  passed  out  into  the  shade  of  pine  and  maples.  A  wind- 
ing path  led  down  a  gentle  slope.  On  the  hillside  under  a 
spreading  tree  a  throng  of  bearded  pioneers,  clad  in  faded  buck- 
skins and  wearing  white-ringed  coonskin  caps,  were  erecting 
a  log  cabin. 

"Life  here  on  the  border  is  keen,  hard,  invigorating,"  said 
Colonel  Zane.  "I  tell  you,  George  Sheppard,  in  spite  of  your 
gray  hair  and  your  pretty  daughter,  you  have  come  out  West 
because  you  want  to  live  among  men  who  do  things." 

"Colonel,  I  won't  gainsay  I've  still  got  hot  blood,"  replied 
Sheppard;  "but  I  came  to  Fort  Henry  for  land.  My  old  home 
in  Williamsburg  has  fallen  into  ruin  together  with  the  fortunes 
of  my  family.  I  brought  my  daughter  and  my  nephew  because  I 
wanted  them  to  take  root  in  new  soil." 

"Well,  George,  right  glad  we  are  to  have  you.  Where  are  your 
sons?  I  remember  them,  though  'tis  sixteen  long  years  since  I 
left  old  Williamsburg." 

"Gone.  The  Revolution  took  my  sons.  Helen  is  the  last  of 
the  family." 

"Well,  well,  indeed  that's  hard.  Independence  has  cost  you 
colonists  as  big  a  price  as  border-freedom  has  us  pioneers.  Come, 
old  friend,  forget  the  past.  A  new  life  begins  for  you  here,  and 
it  will  be  one  which  gives  you  much.  See,  up  goes  a  cabin;  that 
will  soon  be  your  home." 


10  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

Sheppard's  eye  marked  the  sturdy  pioneers  and  a  fast  dimin- 
ishing pile  of  white-oak  logs. 

"Ho-heave!"  cried  a  brawny  foreman. 

A  dozen  stout  shoulders  sagged  beneath  a  well-trimmed  log. 

"Ho-heave!"  yelled  the  foreman. 

"See,  up  she  goes,"  cried  the  colonel,  "and  to-morrow  night 
she'll  shed  rain." 

They  walked  down  a  sandy  lane  bounded  on  the  right  by  a 
wide,  green  clearing,  and  on  the  left  by  a  line  of  chestnuts  and 
maples,  outposts  of  the  thick  forests  beyond. 

"Yours  is  a  fine  site  for  a  house,"  observed  Sheppard,  taking 
in  the  clean-trimmed  field  that  extended  up  the  hillside,  a  brook 
that  splashed  clear  and  noisy  over  the  stones  to  tarry  in  a  little 
grass-bound  lake  which  forced  water  through  half-hollowed 
logs  into  a  spring  house. 

"I  think  so;  this  is  the  fourth  time  I've  put  up  a  cabin  on  this 
land,"  replied  the  colonel. 

"How's  that?" 

"The  redskins  are  keen  to  burn  things." 

Sheppard  laughed  at  the  pioneer's  reply.  "It's  not  difficult, 
Colonel  Zane,  to  understand  why  Fort  Henry  has  stood  all  these 
years,  with  you  as  its  leader.  Certainly  the  location  for  your 
cabin  is  the  finest  in  the  settlement.  What  a  view!" 

High  upon  a  bluff  overhanging  the  majestic,  slow-winding 
Ohio,  the  colonel's  cabin  afforded  a  commanding  position  from 
which  to  view  the  picturesque  valley.  Sheppard's  eye  first  caught 
the  outline  of  the  huge,  bold,  time-blackened  fort  which  frowned 
protectingly  over  surrounding  log-cabins;  then  he  saw  the  wide- 
sweeping  river  with  its  verdant  islands,  golden,  sandy  bars,  and 
willow-bordered  shores,  while  beyond,  rolling  pastures  of  wavy 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  II 

grass  merging  into  green  forests  that  swept  upward  with  slow 
swell  until  lost  in  the  dim  purple  of  distant  mountains. 

"Sixteen  years  ago  I  came  out  of  the  thicket  upon  yonder 
bluff,  and  saw  this  valley.  I  was  deeply  impressed  by  its  beauty, 
but  more  by  its  wonderful  promise." 

"Were  you  alone?" 

"I  and  my  dog.  There  had  been  a  few  white  men  before  me 
on  the  river;  but  I  was  the  first  to  see  this  glorious  valley  from 
the  bluff.  Now,  George,  I'll  let  you  have  a  hundred  acres  of 
well-cleared  land.  The  soil  is  so  rich  you  can  raise  two  crops  in 
one  season.  With  some  stock,  and  a  few  good  hands,  you'll  soon 
be  a  busy  man." 

"I  didn't  expect  so  much  land;  I  can't  well  afford  to  pay  for 
it." 

"Talk  to  me  of  payment  when  the  farm  yields  an  income.  Is 
this  young  nephew  of  yours  strong  and  willing?" 

"He  is,  and  has  gold  enough  to  buy  a  big  farm." 

"Let  him  keep  his  money,  and  make  a  comfortable  home  for 
some  good  lass.  We  marry  our  young  people  early  out  here. 
And  your  daughter,  George,  is  she  fitted  for  this  hard  border 
life?" 

"Never  fear  for  Helen." 

"The  brunt  of  this  pioneer  work  falls  on  our  women.  God 
bless  them,  how  heroic  they've  been!  The  life  here  is  rough 
for  a  man,  let  alone  a  woman.  But  it  is  a  man's  game.  We  need 
girls,  girls  who  will  bear  strong  men.  Yet  I  am  always  saddened 
when  I  see  one  come  out  on  the  border." 

"I  think  I  knew  what  I  was  bringing  Helen  to,  and  she  didn't 
flinch,"  said  Sheppard,  somewhat  surprised  at  the  tone  in  which 
the  colonel  spoke. 

"No  one  knows  until  he  has  lived  on  the  border.  Well,  well, 


12  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

all  this  is  discouraging  to  you.  Ah!  here  is  Miss  Helen  with  my 
sister." 

The  colonel's  fine,  dark  face  lost  its  sternness,  and  brightened 
with  a  smile. 

"I  hope  you  rested  well  after  your  long  ride." 

"I  am  seldom  tired,  and  I  have  been  made  most  comfortable. 
I  thank  you  and  your  sister,"  replied  the  girl,  giving  Colonel 
Zane  her  hand,  and  including  both  him  and  his  sister  in  her 
grateful  glance. 

The  colonel's  sister  was  a  slender,  handsome  young  woman, 
whose  dark  beauty  showed  to  most  effective  advantage  by  the 
contrast  with  her  companion's  fair  skin,  golden  hair,  and  blue 
eyes. 

Beautiful  as  was  Helen  Sheppard,  it  was  her  eyes  that  held 
Colonel  Zane  irresistibly.  They  were  unusually  large,  of  a  dark 
purple-blue  that  changed,  shaded,  shadowed  with  her  every 
thought. 

"Come,  let  us  walk,"  Colonel  Zane  said  abruptly,  and,  with 
Mr.  Sheppard,  followed  the  girls  down  the  path.  He  escorted 
them  to  the  fort,  showed  a  long  room  with  little  squares  cut  in 
the  rough-hewn  logs,  many  bullet  holes,  fire-charred  timbers, 
and  dark  stains,  terribly  suggestive  of  the  pain  and  heroism 
which  the  defense  of  that  rude  structure  had  cost. 

Under  Helen's  eager  questioning  Colonel  Zane  yielded  to  his 
weakness  for  story-telling,  and  recited  the  history  of  the  last 
siege  of  Fort  Henry;  how  the  renegade  Girty  swooped  down 
upon  the  settlement  with  hundreds  of  Indians  and  British 
soldiers;  how  for  three  days  of  whistling  bullets,  flaming  arrows, 
screeching  demons,  fire,  smoke,  and  attack  following  attack, 
the  brave  defenders  stood  at  their  posts,  there  to  die  before 
yielding. 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  13 

"Grand!"  breathed  Helen,  and  her  eyes  glowed.  "It  was  then 
Betty  Zane  ran  with  the  powder?  Oh!  I've  heard  the  story." 

"Let  my  sister  tell  you  of  that,"  said  the  colonel,  smiling. 

"You!  Was  it  you?"  And  Helen's  eyes' glowed  brighter  with 
the  light  of  youth's  glory  in  great  deeds. 

"My  sister  has  been  wedded  and  widowed  since  then,"  said 
Colonel  Zane,  reading  in  Helen's  earnest  scrutiny  of  his  sister's 
calm,  sad  face  a  wonder  if  this  quiet  woman  could  be  the  fear- 
less and  famed  Elizabeth  Zane. 

Impulsively  Helen's  hand  closed  softly  over  her  companion's. 
Out  of  the  girlish  sympathetic  action  a  warm  friendship  was 
born. 

"I  imagine  things  do  happen  here,"  said  Mr.  Sheppard,  hop- 
ing to  hear  more  from  Colonel  Zane. 

The  colonel  smiled  grimly. 

"Every  summer  during  fifteen  years  has  been  a  bloody  one 
on  the  border.  The  sieges  of  Fort  Henry,  and  Crawford's  de- 
feat, the  biggest  things  we  ever  knew  out  here,  are  matters  of 
history;  of  course  you  are  familiar  with  them.  But  the  number- 
less Indian  forays  and  attacks,  the  women  who  have  been  car- 
ried into  captivity  by  renegades,  the  murdered  farmers,  in  fact, 
ceaseless  war  never  long  directed  at  any  point,  but  carried  on 
the  entire  length  of  the  river,  are  matters  known  only  to  the 
pioneers.  Within  five  miles  of  Fort  Henry  I  can  show  you  where 
the  laurel  bushes  grow  three  feet  high  over  the  ashes  of  two 
settlements,  and  many  a  clearing  where  some  unfortunate  pio- 
neer had  staked  his  claim  and  thrown  up  a  log  cabin,  only  to 
die  fighting  for  his  wife  and  children.  Between  here  and  Fort 
Pitt  there  is  only  one  settlement,  Yellow  Creek,  and  most  of  its 
inhabitants  are  survivors  of  abandoned  villages  farther  up  the 
river.  Last  summer  we  had  the  Moravian  Massacre,  the  black- 


14  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

est,  most  inhuman  deed  ever  committeed.  Since  then  Simon 
Girty  and  his  bloody  redskins  have  lain  low." 

"You  must  always  have  had  a  big  force,"  said  Sheppard. 

"We've  managed  always  to  be  strong  enough,  though  there 
never  were  a  large  number  of  men  here.  During  the  last  siege 
I  had  only  forty  in  the  fort,  counting  men,  women  and  boys. 
But  I  had  pioneers  and  women  who  could  handle  a  rifle,  and 
the  best  bordermen  on  the  frontier." 

"Do  you  make  a  distinction  between  pioneers  and  border- 
men?"  asked  Sheppard. 

"Indeed,  yes.  I  am  a  pioneer;  a  borderman  is  an  Indian  hunter, 
or  scout.  For  years  my  cabins  housed  Andrew  Zane,  Sam  and 
John  McCollock,  Bill  Metzar,  and  John  and  Martin  Wetzel, 
all  of  whom  are  dead.  Not  one  saved  his  scalp.  Fort  Henry  is 
growing;  it  has  pioneers,  rivermen,  soldiers,  but  only  two 
bordermen.  Wetzel  and  Jonathan  are  the  only  ones  we  have  left 
of  those  great  men." 

"They  must  be  old,"  mused  Helen,  with  a  dreamy  glow  still 
in  her  eyes. 

"Well,  Miss  Helen,  not  in  years,  as  you  mean.  Life  here  is 
old  in  experience;  few  pioneers,  and  no  bordermen,  live  to  a 
great  age.  Wetzel  is  about  forty,  and  my  brother  Jonathan  still 
a  young  man;  but  both  are  old  in  border  lore." 

Earnestly,  as  a  man  who  loves  his  subject,  Colonel  Zane  told 
his  listeners  of  these  two  most  prominent  characters  of  the 
border.  Sixteen  years  previously,  when  but  boys  in  years,  they 
had  cast  in  their  lot  with  his,  and  journeyed  over  the  Virginian 
Mountains,  Wetzel  to  devote  his  life  to  the  vengeful  calling  he 
had  chosen,  and  Jonathan  to  give  rein  to  an  adventurous  spirit 
and  love  of  the  wilds.  By  some  wonderful  chance,  by  cunning, 
woodcraft,  or  daring,  both  men  had  lived  through  the  years  o£ 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  15 

border  warfare  which  had  brought  to  a  close  the  careers  of  all 
their  contemporaries. 

For  many  years  Wetzel  preferred  solitude  to  companionship; 
he  roamed  the  wilderness  in  pursuit  of  Indians,  his  life-long 
foes,  and  seldom  appeared  at  the  settlement  except  to  bring 
news  of  an  intended  raid  of  the  savages.  Jonathan  also  spent 
much  time  alone  in  the  woods,  or  scouting  along  the  river.  But 
of  late  years  a  friendship  had  ripened  between  the  two  border- 
men.  Mutual  interest  had  brought  them  together  on  the  trail 
of  a  noted  renegade,  and  when,  after  many  long  days  of  patient 
watching  and  persistent  tracking,  the  outlaw  paid  an  awful 
penalty  for  his  bloody  deeds,  these  lone  and  silent  men  were 
friends. 

Powerful  in  build,  fleet  as  deer,  fearless  and  tireless,  Wetzel's 
peculiar  bloodhound  sagacity,  ferocity,  and  implacability,  bal- 
anced by  Jonathan's  keen  intelligence  and  judgment  caused 
these  bordermen  to  become  the  bane  of  redmen  and  renegades. 
Their  fame  increased  with  each  succeeding  summer,  until  now 
the  people  of  the  settlement  looked  upon  wonderful  deeds  of 
strength  and  of  woodcraft  as  a  matter  of  course,  rejoicing  in 
the  power  and  skill  with  which  these  men  were  endowed. 

By  common  consent  the  pioneers  attributed  any  mysterious 
deed,  from  the  rinding  of  a  fat  turkey  on  a  cabin  doorstep,  to 
the  discovery  of  a  savage  scalped  and  pulled  from  his  ambush 
near  a  settler's  spring,  to  Wetzel  and  Jonathan.  All  the  more 
did  they  feel  sure  of  this  conclusion  because  the  bordermen 
never  spoke  of  their  deeds.  Sometimes  a  pioneer  living  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  settlement  would  be  awakened  in  the  morn- 
ing by  a  single  rifle  shot,  and  on  peering  out  would  see  a  dead 
Indian  lying  almost  across  his  doorstep,  while  beyond,  in  the 
dim,  gray  mist,  a  tall  figure  stealing  away.  Often  in  the  twilight 


l6  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

on  a  summer  evening,  while  fondling  his  children  and  enjoy- 
ing his  smoke  after  a  hard  day's  labor  in  the  fields,  this  same 
settler  would  see  the  tall,  dark  figure  of  Jonathan  Zane  step 
noiselessly  out  of  a  thicket,  and  learn  that  he  must  take  his 
family  and  flee  at  once  to  the  fort  for  safety.  When  a  settler 
was  murdered,  his  children  carried  into  captivity  by  Indians, 
and  the  wife  given  over  to  the  power  of  some  brutal  renegade, 
tragedies  wofully  frequent  on  the  border,  Wetzel  and  Jonathan 
took  the  trail  alone.  Many  a  white  woman  was  returned  alive 
and,  sometimes,  unharmed  to  her  relatives;  more  than  one 
maiden  lived  to  be  captured,  rescued,  and  returned  to  her  lover, 
while  almost  numberless  were  the  bones  of  brutal  redmen  lying 
in  the  deep  and  gloomy  woods,  or  bleaching  on  the  plains, 
silent,  ghastly  reminders  of  the  stern  justice  meted  out  by  these 
two  heroes. 

"Such  are  my  two  bordermen,  Miss  Sheppard.  The  fort  there, 
and  all  these  cabins,  would  be  only  black  ashes,  save  for  them, 
and  as  for  us,  our  wives  and  children — God  only  knows." 

"Haven't  they  wives  and  children,  too?"  asked  Helen. 

"No,"  answered  Colonel  Zane,  with  his  genial  smile.  "Such 
joys  are  not  for  bordermen." 

"Why  not?  Fine  men  like  them  deserve  happiness,"  declared 
Helen. 

"It  is  necessary  we  have  such,"  said  the  colonel  simply,  "and 
they  cannot  be  bordermen  unless  free  as  the  air  blows.  Wetzel 
and  Jonathan  have  never  had  sweethearts.  I  believe  Wetzel 
loved  a  lass  once;  but  he  was  an  Indian-killer  whose  hands  were 
red  with  blood.  He  silenced  his  heart,  and  kept  to  his  chosen, 
lonely  life.  Jonathan  does  not  seem  to  realize  that  women  exist 
to  charm,  to  please,  to  be  loved  and  married.  Once  we  twitted 
him  about  his  brothers  doing  their  duty  by  the  border,  where- 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  17 

upon  he  flashed  out:  'My  life  is  the  border's:  my  sweetheart 
is  the  North  Star!' " 

Helen  dreamily  watched  the  dancing,  dimpling  waves  that 
broke  on  the  stones  of  the  river  shore.  All  unconscious  of  the 
powerful  impression  the  colonel's  recital  had  made  upon  her, 
she  was  feeling  the  greatness  of  the  lives  of  these  bordermen, 
and  the  glory  it  would  now  be  for  her  to  share  with  others  the 
pride  in  their  protection. 

"Say,  Sheppard,  look  here,"  said  Colonel  Zane,  on  the  return 
to  his  cabin,  "that  girl  of  yours  has  a  pair  of  eyes.  I  can't  forget 
the  way  they  flashed!  They'll  cause  more  trouble  here  among 
my  garrison  than  would  a  swarm  of  redskins." 

"No!  You  don't  mean  it!  Out  here  in  this  wilderness?"  queried 
Sheppard  doubtfully. 

"Well,  I  do." 

"O  Lord!  What  a  time  I've  had  with  that  girl!  There  was 
one  man  especially,  back  home,  who  made  our  lives  miserable. 
He  was  rich  and  well  born;  but  Helen  would  have  none  of  him. 
He  got  around  me,  old  fool  that  I  am!  Practically  stole  what 
was  left  of  my  estate,  and  gambled  it  away  when  Helen  said 
she'd  die  before  giving  herself  to  him.  It  was  partly  on  his 
account  that  I  brought  her  away.  Then  there  were  a  lot  of  moon- 
eyed  beggars  after  her  all  the  time,  and  she's  young  and  full  of 
fire.  I  hoped  I'd  marry  her  to  some  farmer  out  here,  and  end 
my  days  in  peace." 

"Peace?  With  eyes  like  those?  Never  on  this  green  earth," 
and  Colonel  Zane  laughed  as  he  slapped  his  friend  on  the 
shoulder.  "Don't  worry,  old  fellow.  You  can't  help  her  having 
those  changing  dark-blue  eyes  any  more  than  you  can  help  be- 
ing proud  of  them.  They  have  won  me,  already,  susceptible  old 
backwoodsman!  I'll  help  you  with  this  spirited  young  lady. 


l8  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

I've  had  experience,  Sheppard,  and  don't  you  forget  it.  First, 
my  sister,  a  Zane  all  through,  which  is  saying  enough.  Then  as 
sweet  and  fiery  a  little  Indian  princess  as  ever  stepped  in  a 
beaded  moccasin,  and  since,  more  than  one  beautiful,  impulsive 
creature.  Being  in  authority,  I  suppose  it's  natural  that  all  the 
work,  from  keeping  the  garrison  ready  against  an  attack,  to 
straightening  out  love  affairs,  should  fall  upon  me.  I'll  take  the 
care  off  your  shoulders;  I'll  keep  these  young  dare-devils  from 
killing  each  other  over  Miss  Helen's  favors.  I  certainly — Hello! 
There  are  strangers  at  the  gate.  Something's  up." 

Half  a  dozen  rough-looking  men  had  appeared  from  round 
the  corner  of  the  cabin,  and  halted  at  the  gate. 

"Bill  Elsing,  and  some  of  his  men  from  Yellow  Creek,"  said 
Colonel  Zane,  as  he  went  toward  the  group. 

"Hullo,  Kurnel,"  was  the  greeting  of  the  foremost,  evidently 
the  leader.  "We've  lost  six  head  of  bosses  over  our  way,  an'  are 
out  lookin'  'em  up." 

"The  deuce  you  have!  Say,  this  horse-stealing  business  is 
getting  interesting.  What  did  you  come  in  for?" 

"Wai,  we  meets  Jonathan  on  the  ridge  about  sunup,  an'  he 
sent  us  back  lickety-cut.  Said  he  had  two  of  the  bosses  corralled, 
an'  mebbe  Wetzel  could  git  the  others." 

"That's  strange,"  replied  Colonel  Zane  thoughtfully. 

"  'Pears  to  me  Jack  and  Wetzel  hev  some  redskins  treed,  an' 
didn't  want  us  to  spile  the  fun.  Mebbe  there  wasn't  scalps 
enough  to  go  round.  Anyway,  we  come  in,  an'  we'll  hang  up 
here  to-day." 

"Bill,  who's  doing  this  horse-stealing?" 

"Damn  if  I  know.  It's  a  mighty  pert  piece  of  work.  I've  a 
mind  it's  some  slick  white  fellar,  with  Injuns  backin'  him." 

Helen  noted,  when  she  was  once  more  indoors,  that  Colonel 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  ip 

Zane's  wife  appeared  worried.  Her  usual  placid  expression  was 
gone.  She  put  off  the  playful  overtures  of  her  two  bright  boys 
with  unusual  indifference,  and  turned  to  her  husband  with 
anxious  questioning  as  to  whether  the  strangers  brought  news 
of  Indians.  Upon  being  assured  that  such  was  not  the  case,  she 
looked  relieved,  and  explained  to  Helen  that  she  had  seen  armed 
men  come  so  often  to  consult  the  colonel  regarding  dangerous 
missions  and  expeditions,  that  the  sight  of  a  stranger  caused  her 
unspeakable  dread. 

"I  am  accustomed  to  danger,  yet  I  can  never  control  my  fears 
for  my  husband  and  children,"  said  Mrs.  Zane.  "The  older  I  grow 
the  more  of  a  coward  I  am.  Oh!  this  border  life  is  sad  for  wo- 
men. Only  a  little  while  ago  my  brother  Samuel  McColloch  was 
shot  and  scalped  right  here  on  the  river  bank.  He  was  going  to 
the  spring  for  a  bucket  of  water.  I  lost  another  brother  in  al- 
most the  same  way.  Every  day  during  the  summer  a  husband 
and  a  father  fall  victim  to  some  murderous  Indian.  My  husband 
will  go  in  the  same  way  some  day.  The  border  claims  them  all." 

"Bessie,  you  must  not  show  your  fears  to  our  new  friend. 
And,  Miss  Helen,  don't  believe  she's  the  coward  she  would 
make  out,"  said  the  colonel's  sister  smilingly. 

"Betty  is  right,  Bess,  don't  frighten  her,"  said  Colonel  Zane. 
"I'm  afraid  I  talked  too  much  to-day.  But,  Miss  Helen,  you  were 
so  interested,  and  are  such  a  good  listener,  that  I  couldn't  re- 
frain. Once  for  all  let  me  say  that  you  will  no  doubt  see  stirring 
life  here;  but  there  is  little  danger  of  its  affecting  you.  To  be 
sure  I  think  you'll  have  troubles;  but  not  with  Indians  or  out- 
laws." 

He  winked  at  his  wife  and  sister.  At  first  Helen  did  not 
understand  his  sally,  but  then  she  blushed  red  all  over  her  fair 
face. 


2O  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

Some  time  after  that,  while  unpacking  her  belongings,  she 
heard  the  clatter  of  horses'  hoofs  on  the  rocky  road,  accom- 
panied by  loud  voices.  Running  to  the  window,  she  saw  a  group 
of  men  at  the  gate. 

"Miss  Sheppard,  will  you  come  out?"  called  Colonel  Zane's 
sister  from  the  door.  "My  brother  Jonathan  has  returned." 

Helen  joined  Betty  at  the  door,  and  looked  over  her  shoulder. 

"Wai,  Jack,  ye  got  two  on  'em,  anyways,"  drawled  a  voice 
which  she  recognized  as  that  of  Elsing's. 

A  man,  lithe  and  supple,  slipped  from  the  back  of  one  of  the 
horses,  and,  giving  the  halter  to  Elsing  with  a  single  word, 
turned  and  entered  the  gate.  Colonel  Zane  met  him  there. 

"Well,  Jonathan,  what's  up?" 

"There's  hell  to  pay,"  was  the  reply,  and  the  speaker's  voice 
rang  clear  and  sharp. 

Colonel  Zane  laid  his  hand  on  his  brother's  shoulder,  and  thus 
they  stood  for  a  moment,  singularly  alike,  and  yet  the  sturdy 
pioneer  was,  somehow,  far  different  from  the  dark-haired 
borderman. 

"I  thought  we'd  trouble  in  store  from  the  look  on  your  face," 
said  the  colonel  calmly.  "I  hope  you  haven't  very  bad  news  on 
the  first  day,  for  our  old  friends  from  Virginia." 

"Jonathan,"  cried  Betty  when  he  did  not  answer  the  colonel. 
At  her  call  he  half  turned,  and  his  dark  eyes,  steady,  strained 
like  those  of  a  watching  deer,  sought  his  sister's  face. 

"Betty,  old  Jake  Lane  was  murdered  by  horse  thieves  yester- 
day, and  Mabel  Lane  is  gone." 

"Oh!"  gasped  Betty;  but  she  said  nothing  more. 

Colonel  Zane  cursed  inaudibly. 

"You  know,  Eb,  I  tried  to  keep  Lane  in  the  settlement  for 
Mabel's  sake.  But  he  wanted  to  work  that  farm.  I  believe  horse- 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  21 

stealing  wasn't  as  much  of  an  object  as  the  girl.  Pretty  women 
are  bad  for  the  border,  or  any  other  place,  I  guess.  Wetzel  has 
taken  the  trail,  and  I  came  in  because  I've  serious  suspicions — 
I'll  explain  to  you  alone." 

The  borderman  bowed  gravely  to  Helen,  with  a  natural  grace, 
and  yet  a  manner  that  sat  awkwardly  upon  him.  The  girlj 
slightly  flushed,  and  somewhat  confused  by  this  meeting  with 
the  man  around  whom  her  romantic  imagination  had  already 
woven  a  story,  stood  in  the  doorway  after  giving  him  a  fleeting 
glance,  the  fairest,  sweetest  picture  of  girlish  beauty  ever  seen. 

The  men  went  into  the  house;  but  their  voices  came  dis- 
tinctly through  the  door. 

"Eb,  if  Bing  Legget  or  Girty  ever  see  that  big-eyed  lass,  they'll 
have  her  even  if  Fort  Henry  has  to  be  burned,  an'  in  case  they 
do  get  her,  Wetzel  an'  I'll  have  taken  our  last  trail." 


CHAPTER  III 


SUPPER  over,  Colonel  Zane  led  his  guests  to  a  side  porch,  where 
they  were  soon  joined  by  Mrs.  Zane  and  Betty.  The  host's  two 
boys,  Noah  and  Sammy,  who  had  preceded  them,  were  now 
astride  the  porch-rail  and,  to  judge  by  their  antics,  were  riding 
wild  Indian  mustangs. 

"It's  quite  cool,"  said  Colonel  Zane;  "but  I  want  you  to  see 
the  sunset  in  the  valley.  A  good  many  of  your  future  neighbors 
may  come  over  to-night  for  a  word  of  welcome.  It's  the  border 
custom." 

He  was  about  to  seat  himself  by  the  side  of  Mr.  Sheppard, 


22  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

on  a  rustic  bench,  when  a  Negro  maid  appeared  in  the  doorway 
carrying  a  smiling,  black-eyed  baby.  Colonel  Zane  took  the  child 
and,  holding  it  aloft,  said  with  fatherly  pride: 

"This  is  Rebecca  Zane,  the  first  girl  baby  born  to  the  Zanes, 
and  destined  to  be  the  belle  of  the  border." 

"May  I  have  her?"  asked  Helen  softly,  holding  out  her  arms. 
She  took  the  child,  and  placed  it  upon  her  knee  where  its  look 
of  solemnity  soon  changed  to  one  of  infantile  delight. 

"Here  come  Nell  and  Jim,"  said  Mrs.  Zane,  pointing  toward 
the  fort. 

"Yes,  and  there  comes  my  brother  Silas  with  his  wife,  too," 
added  Colonel  Zane.  "The  first  couple  are  James  Douns,  our 
young  minister,  and  Nell,  his  wife.  They  came  out  here  a  year 
or  so  ago.  James  had  a  brother  Joe,  the  finest  young  fellow  who 
ever  caught  the  border  fever.  He  was  killed  by  one  of  the 
Girtys.  His  was  a  wonderful  story,  and  some  day  you  shall  hear 
about  the  parson  and  his  wife." 

"What's  the  border  fever?"  asked  Mr.  Sheppard. 

"It's  what  brought  you  out  here,"  replied  Colonel  Zane  with 
a  hearty  laugh. 

Helen  gazed  with  interest  at  the  couple  now  coming  into  the 
yard,  and  when  they  gained  the  porch  she  saw  that  the  man 
was  big  and  tall,  with  a  frank,  manly  bearing,  while  his  wife 
was  a  slender  little  woman  with  bright,  sunny  hair,  and  a  sweet, 
smiling  face.  They  greeted  Helen  and  her  father  cordially. 

Next  came  Silas  Zane,  a  typical  bronzed  and  bearded  pioneer, 
with  his  buxom  wife.  Presently  a  little  group  of  villagers  joined 
the  party.  They  were  rugged  men,  clad  in  faded  buckskins,  and 
sober-faced  women  who  wore  dresses  of  plain  gray  linsey.  They 
welcomed  the  newcomers  with  simple,  homely  courtesy.  Then 
six  young  frontiersmen  appeared  from  around  a  corner  of  the 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  23 

cabin,  advancing  hesitatingly.  To  Helen  they  all  looked  alike, 
tall,  awkward,  with  brown  faces  and  big  hands.  When  Colonel 
Zane  cheerily  cried  out  to  them,  they  stumbled  forward  with 
evident  embarrassment,  each  literally  crushing  Helen's  hand  in 
his  horny  palm.  Afterward  they  leaned  on  the  rail  and  stole 
glances  at  her. 

Soon  a  large  number  of  villagers  were  on  the  porch  or  in  the 
yard.  After  paying  their  respects  to  Helen  and  her  father  they 
took  part  in  a  general  conversation.  Two  or  three  girls,  the 
latest  callers,  were  surrounded  by  half  a  dozen  young  fellows, 
and  their  laughter  sounded  high  above  the  hum  of  voices. 

Helen  gazed  upon  this  company  with  mingled  feelings  of  re- 
lief and  pleasure.  She  had  been  more  concerned  regarding  the 
young  people  with  whom  her  lot  might  be  cast,  than  the  dangers 
of  which  others  had  told.  She  knew  that  on  the  border  there 
was  no  distinction  of  rank.  Though  she  came  of  an  old  family, 
and,  during  her  girlhood,  had  been  surrounded  by  refinement, 
even  luxury,  she  had  accepted  cheerfully  the  reverses  of  fortune, 
and  was  determined  to  curb  the  pride  which  had  been  hers.  It 
was  necessary  she  should  have  friends.  Warm-hearted,  impul- 
sive and  loving,  she  needed  to  have  around  her  those  in  whom 
she  could  confide.  Therefore  it  was  with  sincere  pleasure  she 
understood  how  groundless  were  her  fears  and  knew  that  if  she 
did  not  find  good,  true  friends  the  fault  would  be  her  own. 
She  saw  at  a  glance  that  the  colonel's  widowed  sister  was  her 
equal,  perhaps  her  superior,  in  education  and  breeding,  while 
Nellie  Douns  was  as  well-bred  and  gracious  a  little  lady  as  she 
had  ever  met.  Then,  the  other  girls,  too,  were  charming,  with 
frank  wholesomeness  and  freedom. 

Concerning  the  young  men,  of  whom  there  were  about  a 
dozen,  Helen  had  hardly  arrived  at  a  conclusion.  She  liked  the 


24  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

ruggedness,  the  signs  of  honest  worth  which  clung  to  them. 
Despite  her  youth,  she  had  been  much  sought  after  because  of 
her  personal  attractions,  and  had  thus  added  experience  to  the 
natural  keen  intuition  all  women  possess.  The  glances  of  several 
of  the  men,  particularly  the  bold  regard  of  one  Roger  Brandt, 
whom  Colonel  Zane  introduced,  she  had  seen  before,  and  learned 
to  dislike.  On  the  whole,  however,  she  was  delighted  with  the 
prospect  of  new  friends  and  future  prosperity,  and  she  felt 
even  greater  pleasure  in  the  certainty  that  her  father  shared 
her  gratification. 

Suddenly  she  became  aware  that  the  conversation  had  ceased. 
She  looked  up  to  see  the  tall,  lithe  form  of  Jonathan  Zane  as 
he  strode  across  the  porch.  She  could  see  that  a  certain  con- 
straint had  momentarily  fallen  upon  the  company.  It  was  an 
involuntary  acknowledgment  of  the  borderman's  presence,  of 
a  presence  that  worked  on  all  alike  with  a  subtle,  strong  mag- 
netism. 

"Ah,  Jonathan,  come  out  to  see  the  sunset?  It's  unusually  fine 
to-night,"  said  Colonel  Zane. 

With  hardly  more  than  a  perceptible  bow  to  those  present, 
the  borderman  took  a  seat  near  the  rail,  and,  leaning  upon  it, 
directed  his  gaze  westward. 

Helen  sat  so  near  she  could  have  touched  him.  She  was  con- 
scious of  the  same  strange  feeling,  and  impelling  sense  of 
power,  which  had  come  upon  her  so  strongly  at  first  sight  of 
him.  More  than  that,  a  lively  interest  had  been  aroused  in  her. 
This  borderman  was  to  her  a  new  and  novel  character.  She  was 
amused  at  learning  that  here  was  a  young  man  absolutely  in- 
different to  the  charms  of  the  opposite  sex,  and  although 
hardly  admitting  such  a  thing,  she  believed  it  would  be  possible 
to  win  him  from  his  indifference.  On  raising  her  eyelids,  it  was 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  25 

with  the  unconcern  which  a  woman  feigns  when  suspecting 
she  is  being  regarded  with  admiring  eyes.  But  Jonathan  Zane 
might  not  have  known  of  her  presence,  for  all  the  attention  he 
paid  her.  Therefore,  having  a  good  opportunity  to  gaze  at  this 
borderman  of  daring  deeds,  Helen  regarded  him  closely. 

He  was  clad  from  head  to  foot  in  smooth,  soft  buckskin  which 
fitted  well  his  powerful  frame.  Beaded  moccasins,  leggings 
bound  high  above  the  knees,  hunting  coat  laced  and  fringed, 
all  had  the  neat,  tidy  appearance  due  to  good  care.  He  wore  no 
weapons.  His  hair  fell  in  a  raven  mass  over  his  shoulders.  His 
profile  was  regular,  with  a  long,  straight  nose,  strong  chin,  and 
eyes  black  as  night.  They  were  now  fixed  intently  on  the  valley. 
The  whole  face  gave  an  impression  of  serenity,  of  calmness. 

Helen  was  wondering  if  the  sad,  almost  stern,  tranquillity 
of  that  face  ever  changed,  when  the  baby  cooed  and  held  out 
its  chubby  little  hands.  Jonathan's  smile,  which  came  quickly, 
accompanied  by  a  warm  light  in  the  eyes,  relieved  Helen  of  an 
unaccountable  repugnance  she  had  begun  to  feel  toward  the 
borderman.  That  smile,  brief  as  a  flash,  showed  his  gentle  kind- 
ness and  told  that  he  was  not  a  creature  who  had  set  himself 
apart  from  human  life  and  love. 

As  he  took  little  Rebecca,  one  of  his  hands  touched  Helen's. 
If  he  had  taken  heed  of  the  contact,  as  any  ordinary  man  might 
well  have,  she  would,  perhaps,  have  thought  nothing  about  it, 
but  because  he  did  not  appear  to  realize  that  her  hand  had 
been  almost  inclosed  in  his,  she  could  not  help  again  feeling 
his  singular  personality.  She  saw  that  this  man  had  absolutely 
no  thought  of  her.  At  the  moment  this  did  not  awaken  resent- 
ment, for  with  all  her  fire  and  pride  she  was  not  vain;  but 
amusement  gave  place  to  a  respect  which  came  involuntarily. 

Little  Rebecca  presently  manifested  the  faithlessness  peculiar 


26  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

to  her  sex,  and  had  no  sooner  been  taken  upon  Jonathan's 
knee  than  she  cried  out  to  go  back  to  Helen. 

"Girls  are  uncommon  coy  critters,"  said  he,  with  a  grave  smile 
in  his  eyes.  He  handed  back  the  child,  and  once  more  was  ab- 
sorbed in  the  setting  sun. 

Helen  looked  down  the  valley  to  behold  the  most  beautiful 
spectacle  she  had  ever  seen.  Between  the  hills  far  to  the  west, 
the  sky  flamed  with  a  red  and  gold  light.  The  sun  was  poised 
above  the  river,  and  the  shimmering  waters  merged  into  a  ruddy 
horizon.  Long  rays  of  crimson  fire  crossed  the  smooth  waters. 
A  few  purple  clouds  above  caught  the  refulgence,  until  aided  by 
the  delicate  rose  and  blue  space  beyond,  they  became  many  hued 
ships  sailing  on  a  rainbow  sea.  Each  second  saw  a  gorgeous 
transformation.  Slowly  the  sun  dipped  into  the  golden  flood; 
one  by  one  the  clouds  changed  from  crimson  to  gold,  from 
gold  to  rose,  and  then  to  gray;  slowly  all  the  tints  faded  until, 
as  the  sun  slipped  out  of  sight,  the  brilliance  gave  way  to  the 
soft  afterglow  of  warm  lights.  These  in  turn  slowly  toned  down 
into  gray  twilight. 

Helen  retired  to  her  room  soon  afterward,  and,  being  un- 
usually thoughtful,  sat  down  by  the  window.  She  reviewed  the 
events  of  this  first  day  of  her  new  life  on  the  border.  Her  im- 
pressions had  been  so  many,  so  varied,  that  she  wanted  to  dis- 
tinguish them.  First  she  felt  glad,  with  a  sweet,  warm  thank- 
fulness, that  her  father  seemed  so  happy,  so  encouraged  by  the 
outlook.  Breaking  old  ties  had  been,  she  knew,  no  child's  play 
for  him.  She  realized  also  that  it  had  been  done  solely  because 
there  had  been  nothing  left  to  offer  her  in  the  old  home,  and  in 
a  new  one  were  hope  and  possibilities.  Then  she  was  relieved 
at  getting  away  from  the  attentions  of  a  man  whose  persistence 
had  been  most  annoying  to  her.  From  thoughts  of  her  father, 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  VJ 

and  the  old  life,  she  came  to  her  new  friends  of  the  present.  She 
was  so  grateful  for  their  kindness.  She  certainly  would  do  all  in 
her  power  to  win  and  keep  their  esteem. 

Somewhat  of  a  surprise  was  it  to  her,  that  she  reserved  for 
Jonathan  Zane  the  last  and  most  prominent  place  in  her  medi- 
tations. She  suddenly  asked  herself  how  she  regarded  this  right- 
ing borderman.  She  recalled  her  unbounded  enthusiasm  for  the 
man  as  Colonel  Zane  had  told  of  him;  then  her  first  glimpse, 
and  her  surprise  and  admiration  at  the  lithe-limbed  young  giant; 
then  incredulity,  amusement,  and  respect  followed  in  swift 
order,  after  which  an  unaccountable  coldness  that  was  almost 
resentment.  Helen  was  forced  to  admit  that  she  did  not  know 
how  to  regard  him,  but  surely  he  was  a  man,  throughout  every 
inch  of  his  superb  frame,  and  one  who  took  life  seriously,  with 
neither  thought  nor  time  for  the  opposite  sex.  And  this  last 
brought  a  blush  to  her  cheek,  for  she  distinctly  remembered 
she  had  expected,  if  not  admiration,  more  than  passing  notice 
from  this  hero  of  the  border. 

Presently  she  took  a  little  mirror  from  a  table  near  where  she 
sat.  Holding  it  to  catch  the  fast-fading  light,  she  studied  her 
face  seriously. 

"Helen  Sheppard,  I  think  on  the  occasion  of  your  arrival  in  a 
new  country  a  little  plain  talk  will  be  wholesome.  Somehow  or 
other,  perhaps  because  of  a  crowd  of  idle  men  back  there  in  the 
colonies,  possibly  from  your  own  misguided  fancy,  you  imagined 
you  were  fair  to  look  at.  It  is  well  to  be  undeceived." 

Scorn  spoke  in  Helen's  voice.  She  was  angry  because  of  hav- 
ing been  interested  in  a  man,  and  allowed  that  interest  to  be- 
tray h°r  into  a  girlish  expectation  that  he  would  treat  her  as 
all  other  men  had.  The  mirror,  even  in  the  dim  light,  spoke 
more  truly  than  she,  for  it  caught  the  golden  tints  of  her  lux- 


28  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

uriant  hair,  the  thousand  beautiful  shadows  in  her  great,  dark 
eyes,  the  white  glory  of  a  face  fair  as  a  star,  and  the  swelling 
outline  of  neck  and  shoulders. 

With  a  sudden  fiery  impetuosity  she  flung  the  glass  to  the 
floor,  where  it  was  broken  into  several  pieces. 

"How  foolish  of  me!  What  a  temper  I  have!"  she  exclaimed 
repentantly.  "I'm  glad  I  have  another  glass.  Wouldn't  Mr. 
Jonathan  Zane,  borderrr.an,  Indian  fighter,  hero  of  a  hundred 
battles  and  never  a  sweetheart,  be  flattered?  No,  most  decidedly 
he  wouldn't.  He  never  looked  at  me.  I  don't  think  I  expected 
that;  I'm  sure  I  didn't  want  it;  but  still  he  might  have — Oh! 
what  am  I  thinking,  and  he  a  stranger?" 

Before  Helen  lost  herself  in  slumber  on  that  eventful  evening, 
she  vowed  to  ignore  the  borderman;  assured  herself  that  she  did 
not  want  to  see  him  again,  and,  rather  inconsistently,  that  she 
would  cure  him  of  his  indifference. 

****** 

When  Colonel  Zane's  guests  had  retired,  and  the  villagers 
were  gone  to  their  homes,  he  was  free  to  consult  with  Jonathan. 

"Well,  Jack,"  he  said,  "I'm  ready  to  hear  about  the  horse 
thieves." 

"Wetzel  makes  it  out  the  man  who's  runnin'  this  hoss-stealin' 
is  located  right  here  in  Fort  Henry,"  answered  the  borderman. 

The  colonel  had  lived  too  long  on  the  frontier  to  show  sur- 
prise; he  hummed  a  tune  while  the  genial  expression  faded 
slowly  from  his  face. 

"Last  count  there  were  one  hundred  and  ten  men  at  the  fort," 
he  replied  thoughtfully.  "I  know  over  a  hundred,  and  can  trust 
them.  There  are  some  new  fellows  on  the  boats,  and  several 
strangers  hanging  round  Metzar's." 

~  Tears  to  Lew  an'  me  that  this  f ellar  is  a  slick  customer,  an' 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  29 

one  who's  been  here  long  enough  to  know  our  bosses  an'  where 
we  keep  them." 

"I  see.  Like  Miller,  who  fooled  us  all,  even  Betty,  when  he 
stole  our  powder  and  then  sold  us  to  Girty,"  rejoined  Colonel 
Zane  grimly. 

"Exactly,  only  this  fellar  is  slicker  an'  more  desperate  than 
Miller." 

"Right  you  are,  Jack,  for  the  man  who  is  trusted  and  betrays 
us,  must  be  desperate.  Does  he  realize  what  he'll  get  if  we  ever 
find  out,  or  is  he  underrating  us?" 

"He  knows  all  right,  an'  is  matchin'  his  cunnin'  against  our'n." 

"Tell  me  what  you  and  Wetzel  learned." 

The  borderman  proceeded  to  relate  the  events  that  had  oc- 
curred during  a  recent  tramp  in  the  forest  with  Wetzel.  While 
returning  from  a  hunt  in  a  swamp  several  miles  over  the  ridge, 
back  of  Fort  Henry,  they  ran  across  the  trail  of  three  Indians. 
They  followed  this  until  darkness  set  in,  when  both  laid  down 
to  rest  and  wait  for  the  early  dawn,  that  time  most  propitious 
for  taking  the  savage  by  surprise.  On  resuming  the  trail  they 
found  that  other  Indians  had  joined  the  party  they  were  track- 
ing. To  the  bordermen  this  was  significant  of  some  unusual 
activity  directed  toward  the  settlement.  Unable  to  learn  any- 
thing definite  from  the  moccasin  traces,  they  hurried  up  on  the 
trail  to  find  that  the  Indians  had  halted. 

Wetzel  and  Jonathan  saw  from  their  covert  that  the  savages 
had  a  woman  prisoner.  A  singular  feature  about  it  all  was  that 
the  Indians  remained  in  the  same  place  all  day,  did  not  light  a 
camp-fire,  and  kept  a  sharp  lookout.  The  bordermen  crept  up 
as  close  as  safe,  and  remained  on  watch  during  the  day  and 
night. 

Early  next  morning,  when  the  air  was  fading  from  black  to 


30  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

gray,  the  silence  was  broken  by  the  snapping  of  twigs  and  a 
tremor  of  the  ground.  The  bordermen  believed  another  com- 
pany of  Indians  was  approaching;  but  they  soon  saw  it  was  a 
single  white  man  leading  a  number  of  horses.  He  departed  be- 
fore daybreak.  Wetzel  and  Jonathan  could  not  get  a  clear  view 
of  him  owing  to  the  dim  light;  but  they  heard  his  voice,  and 
afterwards  found  the  imprint  of  his  moccasins.  They  did,  how- 
ever, recognize  the  six  horses  as  belonging  to  settlers  in  Yellow 
Creek. 

While  Jonathan  and  Wetzel  were  consulting  as  to  what  it 
was  best  to  do,  the  party  of  Indians  divided,  four  going  directly 
west,  and  the  others  north.  Wetzel  immediately  took  the  trail 
of  the  larger  party  with  the  prisoner  and  four  of  the  horses. 
Jonathan  caught  two  of  the  animals  which  the  Indians  had 
turned  loose,  and  tied  them  in  the  forest.  He  then  started  after 
the  three  Indians  who  had  gone  northward. 

"Well?"  Colonel  Zane  said  impatiently,  when  Jonathan  hesi- 
tated in  his  story. 

"One  got  away,"  he  said  reluctantly.  "I  barked  him  as  he  was 
runnin'  like  a  streak  through  the  bushes,  an'  judged  that  he  was 
hard  hit.  I  got  the  hosses,  an'  turned  back  on  the  trail  of  the 
white  man." 

"Where  did  it  end?" 

"In  that  hard-packed  path  near  the  blacksmith  shop.  An'  the 
fellar  steps  as  light  as  an  Injun." 

"He's  here,  then,  sure  as  you're  born.  We've  lost  no  horses  yet, 
but  last  week  old  Sam  heard  a  noise  in  the  barn,  and  on  going 
there  found  Betty's  mare  out  of  her  stall." 

"Some  one  as  knows  the  lay  of  the  land  had  been  after  her," 
suggested  Jonathan. 

"You  can  bet  on  that.  We've  got  to  find  him  before  we  lose 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  3! 

all  the  fine  horse-flesh  we  own.  Where  do  these  stolen  animals 
go?  Indians  would  steal  any  kind;  but  this  thief  takes  only  the 
best." 

"I'm  to  meet  Wetzel  on  the  ridge  soon,  an'  then  we'll  know, 
for  he's  goin'  to  find  out  where  the  bosses  are  taken." 

"That'll  help  some.  On  the  way  back  you  found  where  the 
white  girl  had  been  taken  from.  Murdered  father,  burned  cabin, 
the  usual  deviltry." 

"Exactly." 

"Poor  Mabel!  Do  you  think  this  white  thief  had  anything  to 
do  with  carrying  her  away?" 

"No.  Wetzel  says  that's  Bing  Legget's  work.  The  Shawnees 
were  members  of  his  gang." 

"Well,  Jack,  what'll  I  do?" 

"Keep  quiet  an'  wait,"  was  the  borderman's  answer. 

Colonel  Zane,  old  pioneer  and  frontiersman  though  he  was, 
shuddered  as  he  went  to  his  room.  His  brother's  dark  look,  and 
his  deadly  calmness,  were  significant. 


CHAPTER  IV 


To  THOSE  few  who  saw  Jonathan  Zane  in  the  village,  it  seemed 
as  if  he  was  in  his  usual  quiet  and  dreamy  state.  The  people  were 
accustomed  to  his  silence,  and  long  since  learned  that  what  little 
time  he  spent  in  the  settlement  was  not  given  to  sociability.  In 
the  morning  he  sometimes  lay  with  Colonel  Zane's  dog,  Chief, 
by  the  side  of  a  spring  under  an  elm  tree,  and  in  the  afternoon 
strolled  aimlessly  along  the  river  bluff,  or  on  the  hillside.  At 


32  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

night  he  sat  on  his  brother's  porch  smoking  a  long  Indian  pipe. 
Since  that  day,  now  a  week  past,  when  he  had  returned  with 
the  stolen  horses,  his  movements  and  habits  were  precisely  what 
would  have  been  expected  of  an  unsuspicious  borderman. 

In  reality,  however,  Jonathan  was  not  what  he  seemed.  He 
knew  all  that  was  going  on  in  the  settlement.  Hardly  a  bird 
could  have  entered  the  clearing  unobserved. 

At  night,  after  all  the  villagers  were  in  bed,  he  stole  cautiously 
about  the  stockade,  silencing  with  familiar  word  the  bristling 
watch-hounds,  and  went  from  barn  to  barn,  ending  his  stealthy 
tramp  at  the  corral  where  Colonel  Zane  kept  his  thoroughbreds. 

But  all  this  scouting  by  night  availed  nothing.  No  unusual 
event  occurred,  not  even  the  barking  of  a  dog,  a  suspicious 
rustling  among  the  thickets,  or  whistling  of  a  night-hawk  had 
been  heard. 

Vainly  the  borderman  strained  ears  to  catch  some  low  night- 
signal  given  by  waiting  Indians  to  the  white  traitor  within  the 
settlement.  By  day  there  was  even  less  to  attract  the  sharp-eyed 
watcher.  The  clumsy  river  boats,  half  raft,  half  sawn  lumber, 
drifted  down  the  Ohio  on  their  first  and  last  voyage,  discharged 
their  cargoes  of  grain,  liquor,  or  merchandise,  and  were  broken 
up.  Their  crews  came  back  on  the  long  overland  journey  to  Fort 
Pitt,  there  to  man  another  craft.  The  garrison  at  the  fort  per- 
formed their  customary  duties;  the  pioneers  tilled  the  fields;  the 
blacksmith  scattered  sparks,  the  wheelwright  worked  industri- 
ously at  his  bench,  and  the  housewives  attended  to  their  many 
cares.  No  strangers  arrived  at  Fort  Henry.  The  quiet  life  of  the 
village  was  uninterrupted. 

Near  sunset  of  a  long  day  Jonathan  strolled  down  the  sandy, 
well-trodden  path  toward  Metzar's  inn.  He  did  not  drink,  and 
consequently  seldom  visited  the  rude,  dark,  ill-smelling  bar-room. 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  33 

When  occasion  demanded  his  presence  there,  he  was  evidently 
not  welcome.  The  original  owner,  a  sturdy  soldier  and  pioneer, 
came  to  Fort  Henry  when  Colonel  Zane  founded  the  settlement, 
and  had  been  killed  during  Girty's  last  attack.  His  successor, 
another  Metzar,  was,  according  to  Jonathan's  belief,  as  bad  as  the 
whiskey  he  dispensed.  More  than  one  murder  had  been  com- 
mitted at  the  inn;  countless  fatal  knife  and  tomahawk  fights  had 
stained  red  the  hard  clay  floor;  and  more  than  one  desperate 
character  had  been  harbored  there.  Once  Colonel  Zane  sent 
Wetzel  there  to  invite  a  thief  and  outlaw  to  quit  the  settlement, 
with  the  not  unexpected  result  that  it  became  necessary  the 
robber  be  carried  out. 

Jonathan  thought  of  the  bad  name  the  place  bore  all  over 
the  frontier,  and  wondered  if  Metzar  could  tell  anything  about 
the  horse-thieves.  When  the  borderman  bent  his  tall  frame  to 
enter  the  low-studded  door  he  fancied  he  saw  a  dark  figure  dis- 
appear into  a  room  just  behind  the  bar.  A  roughly-clad,  heavily- 
bearded  man  turned  hastily  at  the  same  moment. 

""Hullo,"  he  said  gruffly. 

"H'  are  you,  Metzar.  I  just  dropped  in  to  see  if  I  could  make 
a  trade  for  your  sorrel  mare,"  replied  Jonathan.  Being  well  aware 
that  the  innkeeper  would  not  part  with  his  horse,  the  borderman 
had  made  this  announcement  as  his  reason  for  entering  the  bar- 
room. 

"Nope,  I'll  allow  you  can't,"  replied  Metzar. 

As  he  turned  to  go,  Jonathan's  eyes  roamed  around  the  bar- 
room. Several  strangers  of  shiftless  aspect  bleared  at  him. 

"They  wouldn't  steal  a  pumpkin,"  muttered  Jonathan  to  him- 
self as  he  left  the  inn.  Then  he  added  suspiciously,  "Metzar  was 
talkin'  to  some  one,  an'  'peared  uneasy.  I  never  liked  Metzar. 
He'll  bear  watchin'." 


34  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

The  borderman  passed  on  down  the  path  thinking  of  what  he 
had  heard  against  Metzar.  The  colonel  had  said  that  the  man 
was  prosperous  for  an  innkeeper  who  took  pelts,  grain  or  meat 
in  exchange  for  rum.  The  village  gossips  disliked  him  because 
he  was  unmarried,  taciturn,  and  did  not  care  for  their  company. 
Jonathan  reflected  also  on  the  fact  that  Indians  were  frequently 
coming  to  the  inn,  and  this  made  him  distrustful  of  the  pro- 
prietor. It  was  true  that  Colonel  Zane  had  red-skinned  visitors, 
but  there  was  always  good  reason  for  their  coming.  Jonathan 
had  seen,  during  the  Revolution,  more  than  one  trusted  man 
proven  to  be  a  traitor,  and  the  conviction  settled  upon  him  that 
some  quiet  scouting  would  show  up  the  innkeeper  as  aiding  the 
horse-thieves  if  not  actually  in  league  with  them. 

"Good  evening,  Jonathan  Zane." 

This  greeting  in  a  woman's  clear  voice  brought  Jonathan  out 
from  his  reveries.  He  glanced  up  to  see  Helen  Sheppard  stand- 
ing in  the  doorway  of  her  father's  cabin. 

"Evenin',  miss,"  he  said  with  a  bow,  and  would  have  passed 
on. 

"Wait."  she  cried,  and  stepped  out  of  the  door. 

He  waited  by  the  gate  with  a  manner  which  showed  that  such 
a  summons  was  novel  to  him. 

Helen,  piqued  at  his  curt  greeting,  had  asked  him  to  wait 
without  any  idea  of  what  she  would  say.  Coming  slowly  down 
the  path  she  felt  again  a  subtle  awe  of  this  borderman.  Regret- 
ting her  impulsiveness,  she  lost  confidence. 

Gaining  the  gate  she  looked  up  intending  to  speak;  but  was 
unable  to  do  so  as  she  saw  how  cold  and  grave  was  his  face, 
and  how  piercing  were  his  eyes.  She  flushed  slightly,  and  then, 
conscious  of  an  embarrassment  new  and  strange  to  her,  blushed 
rosy  red,  making,  as  it  seemed  to  her,  a  stupid  remark  about  the 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  35 

sunset.  When  he  took  her  words  literally,  and  said  the  sunset 
was  fine,  she  felt  guilty  of  deceitfulness.  Whatever  Helen's  faults, 
and  they  were  many,  she  was  honest,  and  because  of  not  having 
looked  at  the  sunset,  but  only  wanting  him  to  see  her  as  did 
other  men,  the  innocent  ruse  suddenly  appeared  mean  and  tri- 
fling. 

Then,  with  a  woman's  quick  intuition,  she  understood  that 
coquetries  were  lost  on  this  borderman,  and,  with  a  smile,  got 
the  better  of  her  embarrassment  and  humiliation  by  telling  the 
truth. 

"I  wanted  to  ask  a  favor  of  you,  and  I'm  a  little  afraid." 

She  spoke  with  girlish  shyness,  which  increased  as  he  stared 
at  her. 

"Why — why  do  you  look  at  me  so?" 

"There's  a  lake  over  yonder  which  the  Shawnees  say  is  haunted 
by  a  woman  they  killed,"  he  replied  quietly.  "You'd  do  for  her 
spirit,  so  white  an'  beautiful  in  the  silver  moonlight." 

"So  my  white  dress  makes  me  look  ghostly,"  she  answered 
lightly,  though  deeply  conscious  of  surprise  and  pleasure  at  such 
an  unexpected  reply  from  him.  This  borderman  might  be  full  of 
surprises.  "Such  a  time  as  I  had  bringing  my  dresses  out  here! 
I  don't  know  when  I  can  wear  them.  This  is  the  simplest  one." 

"An'  it's  mighty  new  an'  bewilderin'  for  the  border,"  he  replied 
with  a  smile  in  his  eyes. 

"When  these  are  gone  I'll  get  no  more  except  linsey  ones," 
she  said  brightly,  yet  her  eyes  shone  with  a  wistful  uncertainty 
of  the  future. 

"Will  you  be  happy  here?" 

"I  am  happy.  I  have  always  wanted  to  be  of  some  use  in  the 
world.  I  assure  you,  Master  Zane,  I  am  not  the  butterfly  I  seem. 
I  have  worked  hard  all  day,  that  is,  until  your  sister  Betty  came 


36  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

over.  All  the  girls  have  helped  me  fix  up  the  cabin  until  it's  more 
comfortable  than  I  ever  dreamed  one  could  be  on  the  frontier. 
Father  is  well  content  here,  and  that  makes  me  happy.  I  haven't 
had  time  for  forebodings.  The  young  men  of  Fort  Henry  have 
been— well,  attentive;  in  fact,  they've  been  here  all  the  time." 

She  laughed  a  little  at  this  last  remark,  and  looked  demurely 
at  him. 

"It's  a  frontier  custom,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  indeed?  Do  all  the  young  men  call  often  and  stay  late?" 

"They  do." 

"You  didn't,"  she  retorted.  "You're  the  only  one  who  hasn't 
been  to  see  me." 

"I  do  not  wait  on  the  girls,"  he  replied  with  a  grave  smile. 

"Oh,  you  don't?  Do  you  expect  them  to  wait  on  you?"  she 
asked,  feeling,  now  she  had  made  this  silent  man  talk,  once  more 
at  her  ease. 

"I  am  a  borderman,"  replied  Jonathan.  There  was  a  certain 
dignity  or  sadness  in  his  answer  which  reminded  Helen  of 
Colonel  Zane's  portrayal  of  a  borderman's  life.  It  struck  her 
keenly.  Here  was  this  young  giant  standing  erect  and  handsome 
before  her,  as  rugged  as  one  of  the  ash  trees  of  his  beloved 
forest.  Who  could  tell  when  his  strong  life  might  be  ended  by 
an  Indian's  hatchet? 

"For  you,  then,  is  there  no  such  thing  as  friendship?"  she 
asked. 

"On  the  border  men  are  serious." 

This  recalled  his  sister's  conversation  regarding  the  attentions 
of  the  young  men,  that  they  would  follow  her,  fight  for  her,  and 
give  her  absolutely  no  peace  until  one  of  them  had  carried  her 
to  his  cabin  a  bride. 

She  could  not  carry  on  the  usual  conventional  conversation 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  37 

with  this  borderman,  but  remained  silent  for  a  time.  She  realized 
more  keenly  than  ever  before  how  different  he  was  from  other 
men,  and  watched  closely  as  he  stood  gazing  out  over  the  river. 
Perhaps  something  she  had  said  caused  him  to  think  of  the  many 
pleasures  and  joys  he  missed.  But  she  could  not  be  certain  what 
was  in  his  mind.  She  was  not  accustomed  to  impassive  faces  and 
cold  eyes  with  unlit  fires  in  their  dark  depths.  More  likely  he  was 
thinking  of  matters  nearer  to  his  wild,  free  life;  of  his  companion 
Wetzel  somewhere  out  beyond  those  frowning  hills.  Then  she 
remembered  that  the  colonel  had  told  her  of  his  brother's  love 
for  nature  in  all  its  forms;  how  he  watched  the  shades  of  evening 
fall;  lost  himself  in  contemplation  of  the  last  copper  glow  flush- 
ing the  western  sky,  or  became  absorbed  in  the  bright  stars. 
Possibly  he  had  forgotten  her  presence.  Darkness  was  rapidly 
stealing  down  upon  them.  The  evening,  tranquil  and  gray,  crept 
over  them  with  all  its  mystery.  He  was  a  part  of  it.  She  could  not 
hope  to  understand  him;  but  saw  clearly  that  his  was  no  common 
personality.  She  wanted  to  speak,  to  voice  a  sympathy  strong 
within  her;  but  she  did  not  know  what  to  say  to  this  border- 
man. 

"If  what  your  sister  tells  me  of  the  border  is  true,  I  may  soon 
need  a  friend,"  she  said,  after  weighing  well  her  words.  She 
faced  him  modestly  yet  bravely,  and  looked  him  straight  in  the 
eyes.  Because  he  did  not  reply  she  spoke  again. 

"I  mean  such  a  friend  as  you  or  Wetzel." 

"You  may  count  on  both,"  he  replied. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said  softly,  giving  him  her  hand.  "I  shall 
not  forget.  One  more  thing.  Will  you  break  a  borderman's  cus- 
tom, for  my  sake?" 

"How?" 

"Come  to  see  me  when  you  are  in  the  settlement?" 


38  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

Helen  said  this  in  a  low  voice  with  just  a  sob  in  her  breath; 
but  she  met  his  gaze  fairly.  Her  big  eyes  were  all  aglow,  alight 
with  girlish  appeal,  and  yet  proud  with  a  woman's  honest  de- 
mand for  fair  exchange.  Promise  was  there,  too,  could  he  but  read 
it,  of  wonderful  possibilities. 

"No,"  he  answered  gently. 

Helen  was  not  prepared  for  such  a  rebuff.  She  was  interested 
in  him,  and  not  ashamed  to  show  it.  She  feared  only  that  he 
might  misunderstand  her;  but  to  refuse  her  proffered  friendship, 
that  was  indeed  unexpected.  Rude  she  thought  it  was,  while  from 
brow  to  curving  throat  her  fair  skin  crimsoned.  Then  her  face 
grew  pale  as  the  moonlight.  Hard  on  her  resentment  had  surged 
the  swell  of  some  new  emotion  strong  and  sweet.  He  refused  her 
friendship  because  he  did  not  dare  accept  it;  because  his  life  was 
not  his  own;  because  he  was  a  borderman. 

While  they  stood  thus,  Jonathan  looking  perplexed  and 
troubled,  feeling  he  had  hurt  her,  but  knowing  not  what  to 
say,  and  Helen  with  a  warm  softness  in  her  eyes,  the  stalwart 
figure  of  a  man  loomed  out  of  the  gathering  darkness. 

"Ah,  Miss  Helen!  Good  evening,"  he  said. 

"Is  it  you,  Mr.  Brandt?"  asked  Helen.  "Of  course  you  know 
Mr.  Zane." 

Brandt  acknowledged  Jonathan's  bow  with  an  awkwardness 
which  had  certainly  been  absent  in  his  greeting  to  Helen.  He 
started  slightly  when  she  spoke  the  borderman's  name. 

A  brief  pause  ensued. 

"Good  night,"  said  Jonathan,  and  left  them. 

He  had  noticed  Brandt's  gesture  of  surprise,  slight  though  it 
was,  and  was  thinking  about  it  as  he  walked  away.  Brandt  may 
have  been  astonished  at  finding  a  borderman  talking  to  a  girl, 
and  certainly,  as  far  as  Jonathan  was  concerned,  the  incident 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  39 

was  without  precedent.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  Brandt  may 
have  had  another  reason,  and  Jonathan  tried  to  study  out  what 
it  might  be. 

He  gave  but  little  thought  to  Helen.  That  she  might  like  him 
exceedingly  well,  did  not  come  into  his  mind.  He  remembered 
his  sister  Betty's  gossip  regarding  Helen  and  her  admirers,  and 
particularly  Roger  Brandt;  but  felt  no  great  concern;  he  had  no 
curiosity  to  know  more  of  her.  He  admired  Helen  because  she 
was  beautiful,  yet  the  feeling  was  much  the  same  he  might  have 
experienced  for  a  graceful  deer,  a  full-foliaged  tree,  or  a  dark 
mossy-stoned  bend  in  a  murmuring  brook.  The  girl's  face  and 
figure,  perfect  and  alluring  as  they  were,  had  not  awakened 
him  from  his  indifference. 

On  arriving  at  his  brother's  home,  he  found  the  colonel  and 
Betty  sitting  on  the  porch. 

"Eb,  who  is  this  Brandt?"  he  asked. 

"Roger  Brandt?  He's  a  French-Canadian;  came  here  from 
Detroit  a  year  ago.  Why  do  you  ask?" 

"I  want  to  know  more  about  him." 

Colonel  Zane  reflected  a  moment,  first  as  to  this  unusual  re- 
quest from  Jonathan,  and  secondly  in  regard  to  what  little  he 
really  did  know  of  Roger  Brandt. 

"Well,  Jack,  I  can't  tell  you  much;  nothing  of  him  before  he 
showed  up  here.  He  says  he  has  been  a  pioneer,  hunter,  scout, 
soldier,  trader — everything.  When  he  came  to  the  fort  we 
needed  men.  It  was  just  after  Girty's  siege,  and  all  the  cabins 
had  been  burned.  Brandt  seemed  honest,  and  was  a  good  fel- 
low. Besides,  he  had  gold.  He  started  the  river  barges,  which 
came  from  Fort  Pitt.  He  has  surely  done  the  settlement  good 
service,  and  has  prospered.  I  never  talked  a  dozen  times  to  him, 
and  even  then,  not  for  long.  He  appears  to  like  the  young  peo- 


40  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

pie,  which  is  only  natural.  That's  all  I  know;  Betty  might  tell 
you  more,  for  he  tried  to  be  attentive  to  her." 

"Did  he,  Betty?"  Jonathan  asked. 

"He  followed  me  until  I  showed  him  I  didn't  care  for  com- 
pany," answered  Betty. 

"What  kind  of  a  man  is  he?" 

"Jack,  I  know  nothing  against  him,  although  I  never  fancied 
him.  He's  better  educated  than  the  majority  of  frontiersmen; 
he's  good-natured  and  agreeable,  and  the  people  like  him." 

"Why  don't  you?" 

Betty  looked  surprised  at  his  blunt  question,  and  then  said 
with  a  laugh:  "I  never  tried  to  reason  why;  but  since  you  have 
spoken  I  believe  my  dislike  was  instinctive." 

After  Betty  had  retired  to  her  room  the  brothers  remained  on 
the  porch  smoking. 

"Betty's  pretty  keen,  Jack.  I  never  knew  her  to  misjudge  a 
man.  Why  this  sudden  interest  in  Roger  Brandt?" 

The  borderman  puffed  his  pipe  in  silence. 

"Say,  Jack,"  Colonel  Zane  said  suddenly,  "do  you  connect 
Brandt  in  any  way  with  this  horse-stealing?" 

"No  more  than  some,  an'  less  than  others,"  replied  Jonathan 
curtly. 

Nothing  more  was  said  for  a  time.  To  the  brothers  this  hour  of 
early  dusk  brought  the  same  fullness  of  peace.  From  gray  twi- 
light to  gloomy  dusk  quiet  reigned.  The  insects  of  night  chirped 
and  chorused  with  low,  incessant  hum.  From  out  the  darkness 
came  the  peeping  of  frogs. 

Suddenly  the  borderman  straightened  up,  and,  removing  the 
pipe  from  his  mouth,  turned  his  ear  to  the  faint  breeze,  while 
at  the  same  time  one  hand  closed  on  the  colonel's  knee  with  a 
warning  clutch. 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  4! 

Colonel  Zane  knew  what  that  clutch  signified.  Some  faint 
noise,  too  low  for  ordinary  ears,  had  roused  the  borderman. 
The  colonel  listened,  but  heard  nothing  save  the  familiar  eve- 
ning sounds. 

"Jack,  what'd  you  hear?"  he  whispered. 

"Somethin'  back  of  the  barn,"  replied  Jonathan,  slipping 
noiselessly  off  the  steps,  lying  at  full  length  with  his  ear  close 
to  the  ground.  "Where's  the  dog?"  he  asked. 

"Chief  must  have  gone  with  Sam.  The  old  nigger  sometimes 
goes  at  this  hour  to  see  his  daughter." 

Jonathan  lay  on  the  grass  several  moments;  then  suddenly 
he  arose  much  as  a  bent  sapling  springs  to  place. 

"I  hear  footsteps.  Get  the  rifles,"  he  said  in  a  fierce  whisper. 

"Damn!  There  is  some  one  in  the  barn." 

"No;  they're  outside.  Hurry,  but  softly." 

Colonel  Zane  had  but  just  risen  to  his  feet,  when  Mrs.  Zane 
came  to  the  door  and  called  him  by  name. 

Instantly  from  somewhere  in  the  darkness  overhanging  the 
road,  came  a  low,  warning  whistle. 

"A  signal!"  exclaimed  Colonel  Zane. 

"Quick,  Eb!  Look  toward  Metzar's  light.  One,  two,  three, 
shadows — Inj  uns ! " 

"By  the  Lord  Harry!  Now  they're  gone;  but  I  couldn't  mis- 
take those  round  heads  and  bristling  feathers." 

"Shawnees!"  said  the  borderman,  and  his  teeth  shut  hard 
like  steel  on  flint. 

"Jack,  they  were  after  the  horses,  and  some  one  was  on  the 
lookout!  By  God!  right  under  our  noses!" 

"Hurry,"  cried  Jonathan,  pulling  his  brother  off  the  porch. 

Colonel  Zane  followed  the  borderman  out  of  the  yard,  into 
the  road,  and  across  the  grassy  square. 


42  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

"We  might  find  the  one  who  gave  the  signal,"  said  the  colonel. 
"He  was  near  at  hand,  and  couldn't  have  passed  the  house." 

Colonel  Zane  was  correct,  for  whoever  had  whistled  would 
be  forced  to  take  one  of  two  ways  of  escape;  either  down  the 
straight  road  ahead,  or  over  the  high  stockade  fence  of  the  fort. 

"There  he  goes,"  whispered  Jonathan. 

"Where?  I  can't  see  a  blamed  thing." 

"Go  across  the  square,  run  around  the  fort,  an'  head  him  of! 
on  the  road.  Don't  try  to  stop  him  for  he'll  have  weapons,  just 
find  out  who  he  is." 

"I  see  him  now,"  replied  Colonel  Zane,  as  he  hurried  off  into 
the  darkness. 

During  a  few  moments  Jonathan  kept  in  view  the  shadow  he 
had  seen  first  come  out  of  the  gloom  by  the  stockade,  and  thence 
pass  swiftly  down  the  road.  He  followed  swiftly,  silently.  Pres- 
ently a  light  beyond  threw  a  glare  across  the  road.  He  thought 
he  was  approaching  a  yard  where  there  was  a  fire,  and  the 
flames  proved  to  be  from  pine  cones  burning  in  the  yard  of 
Helen  Sheppard.  He  remembered  then  that  she  was  entertain- 
ing some  of  the  young  people. 

The  figure  he  was  pursuing  did  not  pass  the  glare.  Jona- 
than made  certain  it  disappeared  before  reaching  the  light,  and 
he  knew  his  eyesight  too  well  not  to  trust  to  it  absolutely.  Ad- 
vancing nearer  the  yard,  he  heard  the  murmur  of  voices  in  gay 
conversation,  and  soon  saw  figures  moving  about  under  the 
trees. 

No  doubt  was  in  his  mind  but  that  the  man  who  gave  the 
signal  to  warn  the  Indians,  was  one  of  Helen  Sheppard's  guests. 

Jonathan  had  walked  across  the  street  then  down  the  path, 
before  he  saw  the  colonel  coming  from  the  opposite  direction. 
Halting  under  a  maple  he  waited  for  his  brother  to  approach. 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  43 

"I  didn't  meet  any  one.  Did  you  lose  him?"  whispered  Colonel 
Zane  breathlessly. 

"No;  he's  in  there." 

"That's  Sheppard's  place.  Do  you  ra«?an  he's  hiding  there?" 

"No!" 

Colonel  Zane  swore,  as  was  his  habit  when  exasperated.  Kind 
and  generous  man  that  he  was,  it  went  hard  with  him  to  be- 
Jieve  in  the  guilt  of  any  of  the  young  men  he  had  trusted.  But 
Jonathan  had  said  there  was  a  fraitor  among  them,  and  Colonel 
Zane  did  not  question  thir  assertion.  He  knew  the  borderman. 
During  years  full  of  strife,  and  war,  and  blood  had  he  lived  be- 
side this  silent  man  who  said  little,  but  that  little  was  the  truth. 
Therefore  Colonel  Zane  gave  way  to  anger. 

"Well,  I'm  not  so  damned  surprised!  What's  to  be  done?" 

"Find  out  what  men  are  there?" 

"That's  easy.  I'll  go  to  see  George  and  soon  have  the  truth." 

"Won't  do,"  said  the  borderman  decisively.  "Go  back  to  the 
barn,  an'  look  after  the  bosses." 

When  Colonel  Zane  had  obeyed  Jonathan  dropped  to  his 
hands  and  knees,  and  swiftly,  with  the  agile  movements  of  an 
Indian,  gained  a  corner  of  the  Sheppard  yard.  He  crouched  in 
the  shade  of  a  big  plum  tree.  Then,  at  a  favorable  opportunity, 
vaulted  the  fence  and  disappeared  under  a  clump  of  lilac  bushes. 

The  evening  wore  away  no  more  tediously  to  the  borderman, 
than  to  those  young  frontiersmen  who  were  whispering  tender 
or  playful  words  to  their  partners.  Time  and  patience  were  the 
same  to  Jonathan  Zane.  He  lay  hidden  under  the  fragrant  lilacs, 
his  eyes,  accustomed  to  the  dark  from  long  practice,  losing  no 
movement  of  the  guests.  Finally  it  became  evident  that  the 
party  was  at  an  end.  One  couple  took  the  initiative,  and  said 
good  night  to  their  hostess. 


44  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

"Tom  Bennet,  I  hope  it's  not  you,"  whispered  the  borderman 
to  himself,  as  he  recognized  the  young  fellow. 

A  general  movement  followed,  until  the  merry  party  were 
assembled  about  Helen  near  the  front  gate. 

"Jim  Morrison,  I'll  bet  it's  not  you,"  was  Jonathan's  comment. 
"That  soldier  Williams  is  doubtful;  Hart  an'  Johnson  being 
strangers,  are  unknown  quantities  around  here,  an'  then  comes 
Brandt." 

All  departed  except  Brandt,  who  remained  talking  to  Helen 
in  low,  earnest  tones.  Jonathan  lay  very  quietly,  trying  to  decide 
what  should  be  his  next  move  in  the  unraveling  of  the  mystery. 
He  paid  little  attention  to  the  young  couple,  but  could  not  help 
overhearing  their  conversation. 

"Indeed,  Mr.  Brandt,  you  frontiersmen  are  not  backward," 
Helen  was  saying  in  her  clear  voice.  "I  am  surprised  to  learn 
that  you  love  me  upon  such  short  acquaintance,  and  am  sorry, 
too,  for  I  hardly  know  whether  I  even  so  much  as  like  you." 

"I  love  you.  We  men  of  the  border  do  things  rapidly,"  he 
replied  earnestly. 

"So  it  seems,"  she  said  with  a  soft  laugh. 

"Won't  you  care  for  me?"  he  pleaded. 

"Nothing  is  surer  than  that  I  never  know  what  I  am  going 
to  do,"  Helen  replied  lightly. 

"All  these  fellows  are  in  love  with  you.  They  can't  help  it 
any  more  than  I.  You  are  the  most  glorious  creature.  Please 
give  me  hope." 

"Mr.  Brandt,  let  go  my  hand.  I'm  afraid  I  don't  like  such  im- 
pulsive men." 

"Please  let  me  hold  your  hand." 

"Certainly  not." 

"But  I  will  hold  it,  and  if  you  look  at  me  like  that  again  I'll 
do  more,"  he  said. 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  45 

"What,  bold  sir  frontiersman?"  she  returned,  "lightly  still,  but 
in  a  voice  which  rang  with  a  deeper  note. 

"I'll  kiss  you,"  he  cried  desperately. 

"You  wouldn't  dare." 

"Wouldn't  I  though?  You  don't  know  us  border  fellows  yet. 
You  come  here  with  your  wonderful  beauty,  and  smile  at  us 
with  that  light  in  your  eyes  which  makes  men  mad.  Oh,  you'll 
pay  for  it." 

The  borderman  listened  to  all  this  love-making  half  disgusted, 
until  he  began  to  grow  interested.  Brandt's  back  was  turned  to 
him,  and  Helen  stood  so  that  the  light  from  the  pine  cones 
shone  on  her  face.  Her  eyes  were  brilliant,  otherwise  she 
seemed  a  woman  perfectly  self-possessed.  Brandt  held  her  hand 
despite  the  repeated  efforts  she  made  to  free  it.  But  she  did  not 
struggle  violently,  or  make  an  outcry. 

Suddenly  Brandt  grasped  her  other  hand,  pulling  her  toward 
him. 

"These  other  fellows  will  kiss  you,  and  I'm  going  to  be  the 
first!"  he  declared  passionately. 

Helen  drew  back,  now  thoroughly  alarmed  by  the  man's 
fierce  energy.  She  had  been  warned  against  this  very  boldness 
in  frontiersmen;  but  had  felt  secure  in  her  own  pride  and  dig- 
nity. Her  blood  boiled  at  the  thought  that  she  must  exert 
strength  to  escape  insult.  She  struggled  violently  when  Brandt 
bent  his  head.  Almost  sick  with  fear,  she  had  determined  to 
call  for  help,  when  a  violent  wrench  almost  toppled  her  over. 
At  the  same  instant  her  wrists  were  freed;  she  heard  a  fierce 
cry,  a  resounding  blow,  and  then  the  sodden  thud  of  a  heavy 
body  falling.  Recovering  her  balance,  she  saw  a  tall  figure  be- 
side her,  and  a  man  in  the  act  of  rising  from  the  ground. 

"You?"  whispered  Helen,  recognizing  the  tall  figure  as 
Jonathan's. 


46  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

The  borderman  did  not  answer.  He  stepped  forward,  slipping 
his  hand  inside  his  hunting  frock.  Brandt  sprang  nimbly  to  his 
feet,  and  with  a  face  which,  even  in  the  dim  light,  could  be  seen 
distorted  with  fury,  bent  forward  to  look  at  the  stranger.  He, 
too,  had  his  hand  within  his  coat,  as  if  grasping  a  weapon;  but 
he  did  not  draw  it. 

"Zane,  a  lighter  blow  would  have  been  easier  to  forget,"  he 
cried,  his  voice  clear  and  cutting.  Then  he  turned  to  the  girl. 
"Miss  Helen,  I  got  what  I  deserved.  I  crave  your  forgiveness, 
and  ask  you  to  understand  a  man  who  was  once  a  gentleman. 
If  I  am  one  no  longer,  the  frontier  is  to  blame.  I  was  mad  to 
treat  you  as  I  did." 

Thus  speaking,  he  bowed  low  with  the  grace  of  a  man  some- 
times used  to  the  society  of  ladies,  and  then  went  out  of  the 
gate. 

"Where  did  you  come  from?"  asked  Helen,  looking  up  at 
Jonathan. 

He  pointed  under  the  lilac  bushes. 

"Were  you  there?"  she  asked  wonderingly.  "Did  you  hear  all?" 

"I  couldn't  help  hearin'." 

"It  was  fortunate  for  me;  but  why — why  were  you  there?" 

Helen  came  a  step  nearer,  and  regarded  him  curiously  with 
her  great  eyes  now  black  with  excitement. 

The  borderman  was  silent. 

Helen's  softened  mood  changed  instantly.  There  was  nothing 
in  his  cold  face  which  might  have  betrayed  in  him  a  sentiment 
similar  to  that  of  her  admirers. 

"Did  you  spy  on  me?"  she  asked  quickly,  after  a  moment's 
thought. 

"No,"  replied  Jonathan  calmly. 

Helen  gazed  in  perplexity  at  this  strange  man.  She  did  not 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  47 

J'now  how  to  explain  it;  she  was  irritated,  but  did  her  best  to 
conceal  it.  He  had  no  interest  in  her,  yet  had  hidden  under  the 
lilacs  in  her  yard.  She  was  grateful  because  he  had  saved  her 
from  annoyance,  yet  could  not  fathom  his  reason  for  being  so 
near. 

"Did  you  come  here  to  see  me?"  she  asked,  forgetting  her 
vexation. 

"No." 

"What  for,  then?" 

"I  reckon  I  won't  say,"  was  the  quiet,  deliberate  refusal. 

Helen  stamped  her  foot  in  exasperation. 

"Be  careful  that  I  do  not  put  a  wrong  construction  on  your 
strange  action,"  said  she  coldly.  "If  you  have  reasons,  you  might 
trust  me.  If  you  are  only " 

"Sh-s-sh!"  he  breathed,  grasping  her  wrist,  and  holding  it 
firmly  in  his  powerful  hand.  The  whole  attitude  of  the  man  had 
altered  swiftly,  subtly.  The  listlessness  was  gone.  His  lithe  body 
became  rigid  as  he  leaned  forward,  his  head  toward  the  ground, 
and  turned  slightly  in  a  manner  that  betokened  intent  listening. 

Helen  trembled  as  she  felt  his  powerful  frame  quiver.  What- 
ever had  thus  changed  him,  gave  her  another  glimpse  of  his 
complex  personality.  It  seemed  to  her  incredible  that  with  one 
whispered  exclamation  this  man  could  change  from  cold  in- 
difference to  a  fire  and  force  so  strong  as  to  dominate  her. 

Statue-like  she  remained  listening;  but  hearing  no  sound, 
and  thrillingly  conscious  of  the  hand  on  her  arm. 

Far  up  on  the  hillside  an  owl  hooted  dismally,  and  an  in- 
stant later,  faint  and  far  away,  came  an  answer  so  low  as  to  be 
almost  indistinct. 

The  borderman  raised  himself  erect  as  he  released  her. 

"It's  only  an  owl,"  she  said  in  relief. 


48  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

His  eyes  gleamed  like  stars. 

"It's  Wetzel,  an'  it  means  Injuns!" 

Then  he  was  gone  into  the  darkness. 


CHAPTER  V 


IN  the  misty  morning  twilight  Colonel  Zane,  fully  armed,  paced 
to  and  fro  before  his  cabin,  on  guard.  All  night  he  had  main- 
tained a  watch.  He  had  not  considered  it  necessary  to  send  his 
family  into  the  fort,  to  which  they  had  often  been  compelled  to 
flee.  On  the  previous  night  Jonathan  had  come  swiftly  back  to 
the  cabin,  and,  speaking  but  two  words,  seized  his  weapons  and 
vanished  into  the  black  night.  The  words  were  "Injuns!  Wet- 
zel!" and  there  were  none  others  with  more  power  to  affect 
hearers  on  the  border.  The  colonel  believed  that  Wetzel  had 
signaled  to  Jonathan. 

On  the  west  a  deep  gully  with  precipitous  sides  separated  the 
settlement  from  a  high,  wooded  bluff.  Wetzel  often  returned 
from  his  journeying  by  this  difficult  route.  He  had  no  doubt 
seen  Indian  signs,  and  had  communicated  the  intelligence  to 
Jonathan  by  their  system  of  night-bird  calls.  The  nearness  of 
the  mighty  hunter  reassured  Colonel  Zane. 

When  the  colonel  returned  from  his  chase  of  the  previous 
night,  he  went  directly  to  the  stable,  there  to  find  that  the  In- 
dians had  made  off  with  a  thoroughbred,  and  Betty's  pony. 
Colonel  Zane  was  furious,  not  on  account  of  the  value  of  the 
horses,  but  because  Bess  was  his  favorite  bay,  and  Betty  loved 
nothing  more  than  her  pony  Madcap.  To  have  such  a  march 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  49 

stolen  on  him  after  he  had  heard  and  seen  the  thieves  was  in- 
deed hard.  High  time  it  was  that  these  horse  thieves  be  run  to 
earth.  No  Indian  had  planned  these  marauding  expeditions. 
An  intelligent  white  man  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  thieving, 
and  he  should  pay  for  his  treachery. 

The  colonel's  temper,  however,  soon  cooled.  He  realized  after 
thinking  over  the  matter,  that  he  was  fortunate  it  passed  off 
without  bloodshed.  Very  likely  the  intent  had  been  to  get  all 
his  horses,  perhaps  his  neighbor's  as  well,  and  it  had  been  partly 
frustrated  by  Jonathan's  keen  sagacity.  These  Shawnees,  white 
leader  or  not,  would  never  again  run  such  risks. 

"It's  like  a  skulking  Shawnee,"  muttered  Colonel  Zane,  "to 
slip  down  here  under  cover  of  early  dusk,  when  no  one  but  an 
Indian  hunter  could  detect  him.  I  didn't  look  for  trouble, 
especially  so  soon  after  the  lesson  we  gave  Girty  and  his  damned 
English  and  redskins.  It's  lucky  Jonathan  was  here.  I'll  go  back 
to  the  old  plan  of  stationing  scouts  at  the  outposts  until  snow 
flies." 

While  Colonel  Zane  talked  to  himself  and  paced  the  path  he 
had  selected  to  patrol,  the  white  mists  cleared,  and  a  rosy  hue 
followed  the  brightening  in  the  east.  The  birds  ceased  twitter- 
ing to  break  into  gay  songs,  and  the  cock  in  the  barnyard  gave 
one  final  clarion-voiced  salute  to  the  dawn.  The  rose  in  the  east 
deepened  into  rich  red,  and  then  the  sun  peeped  over  the  east- 
ern hilltops  to  drench  the  valley  with  glad  golden  light. 

A  blue  smoke  curling  lazily  from  the  stone  chimney  of  his 
cabin,  showed  that  Sam  had  made  the  kitchen  fire,  and  a  little 
later  a  rich,  savory  odor  gave  pleasing  evidence  that  his  wife 
was  cooking  breakfast. 

"Any  sign  of  Jack?"  a  voice  called  from  the  open  door,  and 
Betty  appeared. 


5O  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

"Nary  sign." 

"Of  the  Indians,  then?" 

"Well,  Betts,  they  left  you  a  token  of  their  regard,"  and  Colonel 
Zane  smiled  as  he  took  a  broken  halter  from  the  fence. 

"Madcap?"  cried  Betty. 

"Yes,  they've  taken  Madcap  and  Bess." 

"Oh,  the  villains!  Poor  pony,"  exclaimed  Betty  indignantly. 
"Eb,  I'll  coax  Wetzel  to  fetch  the  pony  home  if  he  has  to  kill 
every  Shawnee  in  the  valley." 

"Now  you're  talking,  Betts,"  Colonel  Zane  replied.  "If  you 
could  get  Lew  to  do  that  much,  you'd  be  blessed  from  one  end 
of  the  border  to  the  other." 

He  walked  up  the  road;  then  back,  keeping  a  sharp  lookout 
on  all  sides,  and  bestowing  a  particularly  keen  glance  at  the 
hillside  across  the  ravine,  but  could  see  no  sign  of  the  border- 
men.  As  it  was  now  broad  daylight  he  felt  convinced  that  fur- 
ther watch  was  unnecessary,  and  went  in  to  breakfast.  When 
he  came  out  again  the  villagers  were  astir.  The  sharp  strokes 
of  axes  rang  out  on  the  clear  morning  air,  and  a  mellow  anvil- 
clang  pealed  up  from  the  blacksmith  shop.  Colonel  Zane  found 
his  brother  Silas  and  Jim  Douns  near  the  gate. 

"Morning,  boys,"  he  cried  cheerily. 

"Any  glimpse  of  Jack  or  Lew?"  asked  Silas. 

"No;  but  I'm  expecting  one  of  'em  any  moment." 

"How  about  the  Indians?"  asked  Douns.  "Silas  roused  me 
out  last  night;  but  didn't  stay  long  enough  to  say  more  than 
'Indians.' " 

"I  don't  know  much  more  than  Silas.  I  saw  several  of  the  red 
devils  who  stole  the  horses;  but  how  many,  where  they've  gone, 
or  what  we're  to  expect,  I  can't  say.  We've  got  to  wait  for  Jack 
or  Lew.  Silas,  keep  the  garrison  in  readiness  at  the  fort,  and 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  5! 

don't  allow  a  man,  soldier  or  farmer,  to  leave  the  clearing  until 
further  orders.  Perhaps  there  were  only  three  of  those  Shawnees, 
and  then  again  the  woods  might  have  been  full  of  them.  I  take 
it  something's  amiss,  or  Jack  and  Lew  would  be  in  by  now." 

"Here  come  Sheppard  and  his  girl,"  said  Silas,  pointing  down 
the  lane.  "  Tears  George  is  some  excited." 

Colonel  Zane  had  much  the  same  idea  as  he  saw  Sheppard 
and  his  daughter.  The  old  man  appeared  in  a  hurry,  which  was 
sufficient  reason  to  believe  him  anxious  or  alarmed,  and  Helen 
looked  pale. 

"Ebenezer,  what's  this  I  hear  about  Indians?"  Sheppard  asked 
excitedly.  "What  with  Helen's  story  about  the  fort  being  be- 
sieged, and  this  brother  of  yours  routing  honest  people  from 
their  beds,  I  haven't  had  a  wink  of  sleep.  What's  up?  Where 
are  the  redskins?" 

"Now,  George,  be  easy,"  said  Colonel  Zane  calmly.  "And  you, 
Helen,  mustn't  be  frightened.  There's  no  danger.  We  did  have 
a  visit  from  Indians  last  night;  but  they  hurt  no  one,  and  got 
only  two  horses." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  relieved  that  it's  not  worse,"  said  Helen. 

"It's  bad  enough,  Helen,"  Betty  cried,  her  black  eyes  flashing, 
"my  pony  Madcap  is  gone." 

"Colonel  Zane,  come  here  quick!"  cried  Douns,  who  stood 
near  the  gate. 

With  one  leap  Colonel  Zane  was  at  the  gate,  and,  following 
with  his  eyes  the  direction  indicated  by  Douns'  trembling  finger, 
he  saw  two  tall,  brown  figures  striding  down  the  lane.  One 
carried  two  rifles,  and  the  other  a  long  bundle  wrapped  in  a 
blanket. 

"It's  Jack  and  Wetzel,"  whispered  Colonel  Zane  to  Jim. 
"They've  got  the  girl,  and  by  God!  from  the  way  that  bundle 


52  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

hangs,  I  think  she's  dead.  Here,"  he  added,  speaking  loudly, 
"you  women  get  into  the  house." 

Mrs.  Zane,  Betty  and  Helen  stared. 

"Go  into  the  house!"  he  cried  authoritatively. 

Without  a  protest  the  three  women  obeyed. 

At  that  moment  Nellie  Douns  came  across  the  lane;  Sam 
shuffled  out  from  the  backyard,  and  Sheppard  arose  from  his 
seat  on  the  steps.  They  joined  Colonel  Zane,  Silas  and  Jim  at 
the  gate. 

"I  wondered  what  kept  you  so  late,"  Colonel  Zane  said  to 
Jonathan,  as  he  and  his  companion  came  up.  "You've  fetched 
Mabel,  and  she's — "  The  good  man  could  say  no  more.  If  he 
should  live  an  hundred  years  on  the  border  amid  savage  mur- 
derers, he  would  still  be  tender-hearted.  Just  now  he  believed 
the  giant  borderman  by  the  side  of  Jonathan  held  a  dead  girl, 
one  whom  he  had  danced,  when  a  child,  upon  his  knee. 

"Mabel,  an'  jest  alive,"  replied  Jonathan. 

"By  God!  I'm  glad!"  exclaimed  Colonel  Zane.  "Here,  Lew, 
give  her  to  me." 

Wetzel  relinquished  his  burden  to  the  colonel. 

"Lew,  any  bad  Indian  sign?"  asked  Colonel  Zane  as  he  turned 
to  go  into  the  house. 

The  borderman  shook  his  head. 

"Wait  for  me,"  added  the  colonel. 

He  carried  the  girl  to  that  apartment  in  the  cabin  which 
served  the  purpose  of  a  sitting-room,  and  laid  her  on  a  couch. 
He  gently  removed  the  folds  of  the  blanket,  disclosing  to  view 
a  fragile,  white-faced  girl. 

"Bess,  hurry,  hurry!"  he  screamed  to  his  wife,  and  as  she  came 
running  in,  followed  no  less  hurriedly  by  Betty,  Helen  and 
Nellie,  he  continued,  "Here's  Mabel  Lane,  alive,  poor  child; 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  53 

but  in  sore  need  of  help.  First  see  whether  she  has  any  bodily 
injury.  If  a  bullet  must  be  cut  out,  or  a  knife- wound  sewed  up, 
it's  better  she  remained  unconscious.  Betty,  run  for  Bess's  instru- 
ments, and  bring  brandy  and  water.  Lively  now!"  Then  he  gave 
vent  to  an  oath  and  left  the  room. 

Helen,  her  heart  throbbing  wildly,  went  to  the  side  of  Mrs. 
Zane,  who  was  kneeling  by  the  couch.  She  saw  a  delicate  girl, 
not  over  eighteen  years  old,  with  a  face  that  would  have  been 
beautiful  but  for  the  set  lips,  the  closed  eyelids,  and  an  expres- 
sion of  intense  pain. 

"Oh!  Oh!"  breathed  Helen. 

"Nell,  hand  me  the  scissors,"  said  Mrs.  Zane,  "and  help  me 
take  off  this  dress.  Why,  it's  wet,  but,  thank  goodness!  'tis  not 
with  blood.  I  know  that  slippery  touch  too  well.  There,  that's 
right.  Betty,  give  me  a  spoonful  of  brandy.  Now  heat  a  blanket, 
and  get  one  of  your  linsey  gowns  for  this  poor  child." 

Helen  watched  Mrs.  Zane  as  if  fascinated.  The  colonel's  wife 
continued  to  talk  while  with  deft  fingers  she  forced  a  few  drops 
of  brandy  between  the  girl's  closed  teeth.  Then  with  the  adroit- 
ness of  a  skilled  surgeon,  she  made  the  examination.  Helen 
had  heard  of  this  pioneer  woman's  skill  in  setting  broken  bones 
and  treating  injuries,  and  when  she  looked  from  the  calm  face 
to  the  steady  fingers,  she  had  no  doubt  as  to  the  truth  of  what 
had  been  told. 

"Neither  bullet  wound,  cut,  bruise,  nor  broken  bone,"  said 
Mrs.  Zane.  "It's  fear,  starvation,  and  the  terrible  shock." 

She  rubbed  Mabel's  hands  while  gazing  at  her  pale  face.  Then 
she  forced  more  brandy  between  the  tightly-closed  lips.  She  was 
rewarded  by  ever  so  faint  a  color  tinging  the  wan  cheeks,  to  be 
followed  by  a  fluttering  of  the  eyelids.  Then  the  eyes  opened 
wide.  They  were  large,  soft,  dark  and  humid  with  agony. 


54  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

Helen  could  not  bear  their  gaze.  She  saw  the  shadow  of  death, 
and  of  worse  than  death.  She  looked  away,  while  in  her  heart 
rose  a  storm  of  passionate  fury  at  the  brutes  who  had  made  of 
this  tender  girl  a  wreck. 

The  room  was  full  of  women  now,  sober-faced  matrons  and 
grave-eyed  girls,  yet  all  wore  the  same  expression,  not  alone  of 
anger,  nor  fear,  nor  pity,  but  of  all  combined. 

Helen  instinctively  felt  that  this  was  one  of  the  trials  of 
border  endurance,  and  she  knew  from  the  sterner  faces  of  the 
maturer  women  that  such  a  trial  was  familiar.  Despite  all  she 
had  been  told,  the  shock  and  pain  were  too  great,  and  she  went 
out  of  the  room  sobbing. 

She  almost  fell  over  the  broad  back  of  Jonathan  Zane  who 
Was  sitting  on  the  steps.  Near  him  stood  Colonel  Zane  talking 
with  a  tall  man  clad  in  faded  buckskin. 

"Lass,  you  shouldn't  have  stayed,"  said  Colonel  Zane  kindly. 

"It's — hurt — me — here,"  said  Helen,  placing  her  hand  over 
her  heart. 

"Yes,  I  know,  I  know;  of  course  it  has,"  he  replied,  taking 
her  hand.  "But  be  brave,  Helen,  bear  up,  bear  up.  Oh!  this 
border  is  a  stern  place!  Do  not  think  of  that  poor  girl.  Come, 
let  me  introduce  Jonathan's  friend,  Wetzel!" 

Helen  looked  up  and  held  out  her  hand.  She  saw  a  very  tall 
man  with  extremely  broad  shoulders,  a  mass  of  raven-black 
hair,  and  a  white  face.  He  stepped  forward,  and  took  her  hand 
in  his  huge,  horny  palm,  pressing  it,  he  stepped  back  without 
speaking.  Colonel  Zane  talked  to  her  in  a  soothing  voice;  but 
she  failed  to  hear  what  he  said.  This  Wetzel,  this  Indian-hunter 
whom  she  had  heard  called  "Deathwind  of  the  Border,"  this 
companion,  guide,  teacher  of  Jonathan  Zane,  this  borderman  of 
wonderful  deeds,  stood  before  her. 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  55 

Helen  saw  a  cold  face,  deathly  in  its  pallor,  lighted  by  eyes 
sloe-black  but  like  glinting  steel.  Striking  as  were  these  features, 
they  failed  to  fascinate  as  did  the  strange  tracings  which  ap- 
parently showed  through  the  white,  drawn  skin.  This  first  re- 
pelled, then  drew  her  with  wonderful  force.  Suffering,  of  fire, 
and  frost,  and  iron  was  written  there,  and,  stronger  than  all,  so 
potent  as  to  cause  fear,  could  be  read  the  terrible  purpose  of  this 
man's  tragic  life. 

"You  avenged  her!  Oh!  I  know  you  did!"  cried  Helen,  her 
whole  heart  leaping  with  a  blaze  to  her  eyes. 

She  was  answered  by  a  smile,  but  such  a  smile!  Kindly  it 
broke  over  the  stern  face,  giving  a  glimpse  of  a  heart  still  warm 
beneath  that  steely  cold.  Behind  it,  too,  there  was  something 
fateful,  something  deadly. 

Helen  knew,  though  the  borderman  spoke  not,  that  some- 
where among  the  grasses  of  the  broad  plains,  or  on  the  moss 
of  the  wooded  hills,  lay  dead  the  perpetrators  of  this  outrage, 
their  still  faces  bearing  the  ghastly  stamp  of  Deathwind. 


CHAPTER  VI 


HAPPIER  days  than  she  had  hoped  for,  dawned  upon  Helen  after 
the  first  touch  of  border  sorrow.  Mabel  Lane  did  not  die.  Helen 
and  Betty  nursed  the  stricken  girl  tenderly,  weeping  for  very 
joy  when  signs  of  improvement  appeared.  She  had  remained 
silent  for  several  days,  always  with  that  haunting  fear  in  her 
eyes,  and  then  gradually  came  a  change.  Tender  care  and  nurs- 
ing had  due  effect  in  banishing  the  dark  shadow.  One  morning 


«Jf5  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

after  a  long  sleep  she  awakened  with  a  bright  smile,  and  from 
that  time  her  improvement  was  rapid. 

Helen  wanted  Mabel  to  live  with  her.  The  girl's  position  was 
pitiable.  Homeless,  fatherless,  with  not  a  relative  on  the  border, 
yet  so  brave,  so  patient  that  she  aroused  all  the  sympathy  in 
Helen's  breast.  Village  gossip  was  in  substance,  that  Mabel  had 
given  her  love  to  a  young  frontiersman,  by  name  Alex  Bennet, 
who  had  an  affection  for  her,  so  it  was  said,  but  as  yet  had  made 
no  choice  between  her  and  the  other  lasses  of  the  settlement. 
What  effect  Mabel's  terrible  experience  might  have  on  this 
lukewarm  lover,  Helen  could  not  even  guess;  but  she  was  not 
hopeful  as  to  the  future.  Colonel  Zane  and  Betty  approved  of 
Helen's  plan  to  persuade  Mabel  to  live  with  her,  and  the  latter 's 
faint  protestations  they  silenced  by  claiming  she  could  be  of  great 
assistance  in  the  management  of  the  house,  therefore  it  was 
settled. 

Finally  the  day  came  when  Mabel  was  ready  to  go  with  Helen. 
Betty  had  given  her  a  generous  supply  of  clothing,  for  all  her 
belongings  had  been  destroyed  when  the  cabin  was  burned. 
With  Helen's  strong  young  arm  around  her  she  voiced  her  grati- 
tude to  Betty  and  Mrs.  Zane  and  started  toward  the  Sheppard 
home. 

From  the  green  square,  where  the  ground  was  highest,  an  un- 
obstructed view  could  be  had  of  the  valley.  Mabel  gazed  down 
the  river  to  where  her  home  formerly  stood.  Only  a  faint,  dark 
spot,  like  a  blur  on  the  green  landscape,  could  be  seen.  Her  soft 
eyes  filled  with  tears;  but  she  spoke  no  word. 

"She's  game  and  that's  why  she  didn't  go  under,"  Colonel 
Zane  said  to  himself  as  he  mused  on  the  strength  and  spirit  of 
borderwomen.  To  their  heroism,  more  than  any  other  thing, 
he  attributed  the  establishing  of  homes  in  this  wilderness. 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  57 

In  the  days  that  ensued,  as  Mabel  grew  stronger,  the  girls  be- 
came very  fond  of  each  other.  Helen  would  have  been  happy 
at  any  time  with  such  a  sweet  companion,  but  just  then,  when 
the  poor  girl's  mind  was  so  sorely  disturbed  she  was  doubly 
glad.  For  several  days,  after  Mabel  was  out  of  danger,  Helen's 
thoughts  had  dwelt  on  a  subject  which  caused  extreme  vexa- 
tion. She  had  begun  to  suspect  that  she  encouraged  too  many 
admirers  for  whom  she  did  not  care,  and  thought  too  much  of 
a  man  who  did  not  reciprocate.  She  was  gay  and  moody  in  turn. 
During  the  moody  hours  she  suspected  herself,  and  in  her  gay 
ones,  scorned  the  idea  that  she  might  ever  care  for  a  man  who 
was  indifferent.  But  that  thought  once  admitted,  had  a  trick  of 
returning  at  odd  moments,  clouding  her  cheerful  moods. 

One  sunshiny  morning  while  the  May  flowers  smiled  under 
the  hedge,  when  dew  sparkled  on  the  leaves,  and  the  locust- 
blossoms  shone  creamy-white  amid  the  soft  green  of  the  trees, 
the  girls  set  about  their  much-planned  flower  gardening.  Helen 
was  passionately  fond  of  plants,  and  had  brought  a  jar  of  seeds  of 
her  favorites  all  the  way  from  her  eastern  home. 

"We'll  plant  the  morning-glories  so  they'll  run  up  the  porch, 
and  the  dahlias  in  this  long  row  and  the  nasturtiums  in  this 
round  bed,"  Helen  said. 

"You  have  some  trailing  arbutus,"  added  Mabel,  "and  must 
have  clematis,  wild  honeysuckle  and  golden-glow,  for  they  are 
all  sweet  flowers." 

"This  arbutus  is  so  fresh,  so  dewy,  so  fragrant,"  said  Helen, 
bending  aside  a  lilac  bush  to  see  the  pale,  creeping  flowers.  "I 
never  saw  anything  so  beautiful.  I  grow  more  and  more  in  love 
with  my  new  home  and  friends.  I  have  such  a  pretty  garden  to 
look  into,  and  I  never  tire  of  the  view  beyond." 


58  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

Helen  gazed  with  pleasure  and  pride  at  the  garden  with  its 
fresh  green  and  lavender-crested  lilacs,  at  the  white-blossomed 
trees,  and  the  vine-covered  log  cabins  with  blue  smoke  curling 
from  their  stone  chimneys.  Beyond,  the  great  bulk  of  the  fort 
stood  guard  above  the  willow-skirted  river,  and  far  away  over 
the  winding  stream  the  dark  hills,  defiant,  kept  their  secrets. 

"If  it  weren't  for  that  threatening  fort  one  could  imagine  this 
little  hamlet,  nestling  under  the  great  bluff,  as  quiet  and  secure 
as  it  is  beautiful,"  said  Helen.  "But  that  charred  stockade  fence 
with  its  scarred  bastions  and  these  lowering  port-holes,  always 
keep  me  alive  to  the  reality." 

"It  wasn't  very  quiet  when  Girty  was  here,"  Mabel  replied 
thoughtfully. 

"Were  you  in  the  fort  then?"  asked  Helen  breathlessly. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  cooled  the  rifles  for  the  men,"  replied  Mabel  calmly. 

"Tell  me  all  about  it." 

Helen  listened  again  to  a  story  she  had  heard  many  times; 
but  told  by  new  lips  it  always  gained  in  vivid  interest.  She  never 
tired  of  hearing  how  the  notorious  renegade,  Girty,  rode  around 
the  fort  on  his  white  horse,  giving  the  defenders  an  hour  in 
which  to  surrender;  she  learned  again  of  the  attack,  when  the 
British  soldiers  remained  silent  on  an  adjoining  hillside,  while 
the  Indians  yelled  exultantly  and  ran  about  in  fiendish  glee, 
when  Wetzel  began  the  battle  by  shooting  an  Indian  chieftain 
who  had  ventured  within  range  of  his  ever  fatal  rifle.  And 
when  it  came  to  the  heroic  deeds  of  that  memorable  siege  Helen 
could  not  contain  her  enthusiasm.  She  shed  tears  over  little 
Harry  Bennet's  death  at  the  south  bastion  where,  though  riddled 
with  bullets,  he  stuck  to  his  post  until  relieved.  Clark's  ract, 
across  the  roof  of  the  fort  to  extinguish  a  burning  arrow,  she 
applauded  with  clapping  hands.  Her  great  eyes  glowed  and 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  59 

burned,  but  she  was  silent,  when  hearing  how  Wetzel  ran  alone 
to  a  break  in  the  stockade,  and  there,  with  an  ax,  the  terrible 
borderman  held  at  bay  the  whole  infuriated  Indian  mob  until 
the  breach  was  closed.  Lastly  Betty  Zane's  never-to-be-forgotten 
run  with  the  powder  to  the  relief  of  the  garrison  and  the  saving 
of  the  fort  was  something  not  to  cry  over  or  applaud;  but  to 
dream  of  and  to  glorify. 

"Down  that  slope  from  Colonel  Zane's  cabin  is  where  Betty 
ran  with  the  powder,"  said  Mabel,  pointing. 

"Did  you  see  her?"  asked  Helen. 

"Yes,  I  looked  out  of  a  port-hole.  The  Indians  stopped  firing 
at  the  fort  in  their  eagerness  to  shoot  Betty.  Oh,  the  banging  of 
guns  and  yelling  of  savages  was  one  fearful,  dreadful  roar! 
Through  all  that  hail  of  bullets  Betty  ran  swift  as  the  wind." 

"I  almost  wish  Girty  would  come  again,"  said  Helen. 

"Don't;  he  might." 

"How  long  has  Betty's  husband,  Mr.  Clarke,  been  dead?" 
inquired  Helen. 

"I  don't  remember  exactly.  He  didn't  live  long  after  the  siege. 
Some  say  he  inhaled  the  flames  while  righting  fire  inside  the 
stockade." 

"How  sad!" 

"Yes,  it  was.  It  nearly  killed  Betty.  But  we  border  girls  do 
not  give  up  easily;  we  must  not,"  replied  Mabel,  an  unquench- 
able spirit  showing  through  the  sadness  of  her  eyes. 

Merry  voices  interrupted  them,  and  they  turned  to  see  Betty 
and  Nell  entering  the  gate.  With  Nell's  bright  chatter  and 
Betty's  wit,  the  conversation  became  indeed  vivacious,  running 
from  gossip  to  gowns,  and  then  to  that  old  and  ever  new  theme, 
love.  Shortly  afterward  the  colonel  entered  the  gate,  with  swing- 
ing step  and  genial  smile. 


66  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

"Well,  now,  if  here  aren't  four  handsome  lasses,"  he  said  with 
an  admiring  glance. 

"Eb,  I  believe  if  you  were  single  any  girl  might  well  suspect 
you  of  being  a  flirt,"  said  Betty. 

"No  girl  ever  did.  I  tell  you  I  was  a  lady-killer  in  my  day," 
replied  Colonel  Zane,  straightening  his  fine  form.  He  was  indeed 
handsome,  with  his  stalwart  frame,  dark,  bronzed  face  and 
rugged,  manly  bearing. 

"Bess  said  you  were;  but  that  it  didn't  last  long  after  you 
saw  her,"  cried  Betty,  mischief  gleaming  in  her  dark  eye. 

"Well,  that's  so,"  replied  the  colonel,  looking  a  trifle  crest- 
fallen; "but  you  know  every  dog  has  his  day."  Then  advancing 
to  the  porch,  he  looked  at  Mabel  with  a  more  serious  gaze  as 
he  asked,  "How  are  you  to-day?" 

"Thank  you,  Colonel  Zane,  I  am  getting  quite  strong." 

"Look  up  the  valley.  There's  a  raft  coming  down  the  river," 
said  he  softly. 

Far  up  the  broad  Ohio  a  square  patch  showed  dark  against 
the  green  water. 

Colonel  Zane  saw  Mabel  start,  and  a  dark  red  flush  came  over 
her  pale  face.  For  an  instant  she  gazed  with  an  expression  of 
appeal,  almost  fear.  He  knew  the  reason.  Alex  Bennet  was  on 
that  raft. 

"I  came  over  to  ask  if  I  can  be  of  any  service?" 

"Tell  him,"  she  answered  simply. 

"I  say,  Betts,"  Colonel  Zane  cried,  "has  Helen's  cousin  cast 
Jny  more  such  sheep  eyes  at  you?" 

"Oh,  Eb,  what  nonsense!"  exclaimed  Betty,  blushing  furiously. 

"Well,  if  he  didn't  look  sweet  at  you  I'm  an  old  fool." 

'You're  one  anyway,  and  you're  horrid,"  said  Betty,  tears  of 
anger  glistening  in  her  eyes. 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  6l 

Colonel  Zane  whistled  softly  as  he  walked  down  the  lane. 
He  went  into  the  wheelwright's  shop  to  see  about  some  repairs 
he  was  having  made  on  a  wagon,  and  then  strolled  on  down 
to  the  river.  Two  Indians  were  sitting  on  the  rude  log  wharf, 
together  with  several  frontiersmen  and  rivermen,  all  waiting 
for  the  raft.  He  conversed  with  the  Indians,  who  were  friendly 
Chippewas,  until  the  raft  was  tied  up.  The  first  person  to  leap  on 
shore  was  a  sturdy  young  fellow  with  a  shock  of  yellow  hair, 
and  a  warm,  ruddy  skin. 

"Hello,  Alex,  did  you  have  a  good  trip?"  asked  Colonel  Zane 
of  the  youth. 

"H'are  ye,  Colonel  Zane.  Yes,  first-rate  trip,"  replied  young 
Bennet.  "Say,  I've  a  word  for  you.  Come  aside,"  and  drawing 
Colonel  Zane  out  of  earshot  of  the  others,  he  continued,  "I 
heard  this  by  accident,  not  that  I  didn't  spy  a  bit  when  I  got 
interested,  for  I  did;  but  the  way  it  came  about  was  all  chance. 
Briefly,  there's  a  man,  evidently  an  Englishman,  at  Fort  Pitt, 
whom  I  overheard  say  he  was  out  on  the  border  after  a  Shep- 
pard  girl.  I  happened  to  hear  from  one  of  Brandt's  men,  who 
rode  into  Pitt  just  before  we  left,  that  you  had  new  friends  here 
by  that  name.  This  fellow  was  a  handsome  chap,  no  common 
sort,  but  lordly,  dissipated  and  reckless  as  the  devil.  He  had  a 
servant  traveling  with  him,  a  sailor,  by  his  gab,  who  was  about 
the  toughest  customer  I've  met  in  many  a  day.  He  cut  a  fellow 
in  bad  shape  at  Pitt.  These  two  will  be  on  the  next  boat,  due 
here  in  a  day  or  so,  according  to  river  and  weather  conditions, 
an'  I  thought,  considerin'  how  unusual  the  thing  was,  I'd  better 
tell  ye." 

"Well,  well,"  said  Colonel  Zane  reflectively.  He  recalled  Shep- 
pard's  talk  about  an  Englishman.  "Alex,  you  did  well  to  tell  me. 


62  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

Was  the  man  drunk  when  he  said  he  came  west  after  a 
woman?" 

"Sure  he  was,"  replied  Alex.  "But  not  when  he  spoke  the 
name.  Ye  see  I  got  suspicious,  an'  asked  about  him.  It's  this 
way:  Jake  Wentz,  the  trader,  told  me  the  fellow  asked  for  the 
Sheppards  when  he  got  off  the  wagon-train.  When  I  first  seen 
him  he  was  drunk,  and  I  heard  Jeff  Lynn  say  as  how  the  border 
was  a  bad  place  to  come  after  a  woman.  That's  what  made  me 
prick  up  my  ears.  Then  the  Englishman  said:  'It  is,  eh?  By  God! 
I'd  go  to  hell  after  a  woman  I  wanted.'  An'  Colonel,  he  looked 
it,  too." 

Colonel  Zane  remained  thoughtful  while  Alex  made  up  a 
bundle  and  forced  the  haft  of  an  ax  under  the  string;  but  as  the 
young  man  started  away  the  colonel  suddenly  remembered  his 
errand  down  to  the  wharf. 

"Alex,  come  back  here,"  he  said,  and  wondered  if  the  lad  had 
good  stuff  in  him.  The  boatman's  face  was  plain,  but  not  evil, 
and  a  close  scrutiny  of  it  rather  prepossessed  the  colonel. 

"Alex,  I've  some  bad  news  for  you,"  and  then  bluntly,  with 
his  keen  gaze  fastened  on  the  young  man's  face,  he  told  of  old 
Lane's  murder,  of  Mabel's  abduction,  and  of  her  rescue  by 
Wetzel. 

Alex  began  to  curse  and  swear  vengeance. 

"Stow  all  that,"  said  the  colonel  sharply.  "Wetzel  followed 
four  Indians  who  had  Mabel  and  some  stolen  horses.  The  red- 
skins quarreled  over  the  girl,  and  two  took  the  horses,  leaving 
Mabel  to  the  others.  Wetzel  went  after  these  last,  tomahawked 
them,  and  brought  Mabel  home.  She  was  in  a  bad  way,  but  is 
now  getting  over  the  shock." 

"Say,  what'd  we  do  here  without  Wetzel?"  Alex  said  huskily, 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  63 

unmindful  of  the  tears  that  streamed  from  his  eyes  and  ran  over 
his  brown  cheeks.  "Poor  old  Jake!  Poor  Mabel!  Damn  me!  it's 
my  fault.  If  I'd  'a  done  right  an'  married  her  as  I  should,  as  I 
wanted  to,  she  wouldn't  have  had  to  suffer.  But  I'll  marry  her 
yet,  if  she'll  have  me.  It  was  only  because  I  had  no  farm,  no 
stock,  an'  only  that  little  cabin  as  is  full  now,  that  I  waited." 

"Alex,  you  know  me,"  said  Colonel  Zane  in  kindly  tones. 
"Look  there,  down  the  clearing  half  a  mile.  See  that  green  strip 
of  land  along  the  river,  with  the  big  chestnut  in  the  middle 
and  a  cabin  beyond.  There's  as  fine  farming  land  as  can  be  found 
on  the  border,  eighty  acres,  well  watered.  The  day  you  marry 
Mabel  that  farm  is  yours." 

Alex  grew  red,  stammered,  and  vainly  tried  to  express  his 
gratitude. 

"Come  along,  the  sooner  you  tell  Mabel  the  better,"  said  the 
colonel  with  glowing  face.  He  was  a  good  matchmaker.  He  de- 
rived more  pleasure  from  a  little  charity  bestowed  upon  a  de- 
serving person,  than  from  a  season's  crops. 

When  they  arrived  at  the  Sheppard  house  the  girls  were  still 
on  the  porch.  Mabel  rose  when  she  saw  Alex,  standing  white 
and  still.  He,  poor  fellow,  was  embarrassed  by  the  others,  who 
regarded  him  with  steady  eyes. 

Colonel  Zane  pushed  Alex  up  on  the  porch,  and  said  in  a  low 
voice:  "Mabel,  I've  just  arranged  something  you're  to  give  Alex. 
It's  a  nice  little  farm,  and  it'll  be  a  wedding  present." 

Mabel  looked  in  a  bewildered  manner  from  Colonel  Zane's 
happy  face  to  the  girls,  and  then  at  the  red,  joyous  features  of 
her  lover.  Only  then  did  she  understand,  and  uttering  a  strange 
little  cry,  put  her  trembling  hands  to  her  bosom  as  she  swayed 
to  and  fro. 


64  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

But  she  did  not  fall,  for  Alex,  quick  at  the  last,  leaped  for- 
ward and  caught  her  in  his  arms. 

****** 

That  evening  Helen  denied  herself  to  Mr.  Brandt  and  several 
other  callers.  She  sat  on  the  porch  with  her  father  while  he 
smoked  his  pipe. 

"Where's  Will?"  she  asked. 

"Gone  after  snipe,  so  he  said,"  replied  her  father. 

"Snipe?  How  funny!  Imagine  Will  hunting!  He's  surely 
catching  the  wild  fever  Colonel  Zane  told  us  about." 

"He  surely  is." 

Then  came  a  time  of  silence.  Mr.  Sheppard,  accustomed  to 
Helen's  gladsome  spirit  and  propensity  to  gay  "-hatter,  noted 
how  quiet  she  was,  and  wondered. 

"Why  are  you  so  still?" 

"I'm  a  little  homesick,"  Helen  replied  reluctantly. 

"No?  Well,  I  declare!  This  is  a  glorious  country;  but  not  for 
such  as  you,  dear,  who  love  music  and  gaiety.  I  often  fear  you'll 
not  be  happy  here,  and  then  I  long  for  the  old  home,  which 
reminds  me  of  your  mother." 

"Dearest,  forget  what  I  said,"  cried  Helen  earnestly.  "I'm  only 
a  little  blue  to-day;  perhaps  not  at  all  homesick." 

"Indeed,  you  always  seemed  happy." 

"Father,  I  am  happy.  It's  only — only  a  girl's  foolish  sentiment." 

"I've  got  something  to  tell  you,  Helen,  and  it  has  bothered 
me  since  Colonel  Zane  spoke  of  it  to-night.  Mordaunt  is  com- 
ing to  Fort  Henry." 

"Mordaunt?  Oh,  impossible!  Who  said  so?  How  did  you 
learn?" 

"I  fear  'tis  true,  my  dear.  Colonel  Zane  told  me  he  had  heard 
of  an  Englishman  at  Fort  Pitt  who  asked  after  us.  Moreover, 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  65 

the  fellow  answers  the  description  of  Mordaunt.  I  am  afraid  it 
is  he,  and  come  after  you." 

"Suppose  he  has— who  cares?  We  owe  him  nothing.  He  can- 
not hurt  us." 

"But,  Helen,  he's  a  desperate  man.  Aren't  you  afraid  of  him?" 

"Not  I,"  cried  Helen,  laughing  in  scorn.  "He'd  better  have  a 
care.  He  can't  run  things  with  a  high  hand  out  here  on  the 
border.  I  told  him  I  would  have  none  of  him,  and  that  ended  it." 

"I'm  much  relieved.  I  didn't  want  to  tell  you;  but  it  seemed 
necessary.  Well,  child,  good  night,  I'll  go  to  bed." 

Long  after  Mr.  Sheppard  had  retired  Helen  sat  thinking. 
Memories  of  the  past,  and  of  the  unwelcome  suitor,  Mordaunt, 
thronged  upon  her  thick  and  fast.  She  could  see  him  now  with 
his  pale,  handsome  face,  and  distinguished  bearing.  She  had 
liked  him,  as  she  had  other  men,  until  he  involved  her  father, 
with  himself,  in  financial  ruin,  and  had  made  his  attention  to 
her  unpleasantly  persistent.  Then  he  had  followed  the  fall  of 
fortune  with  wild  dissipation,  and  became  a  gambler  and  a 
drunkard.  But  he  did  not  desist  in  his  mad  wooing.  He  became 
like  her  shadow,  and  life  grew  to  be  unendurable,  until  her 
father  planned  to  emigrate  west,  when  she  hailed  the  news  with 
joy.  And  now  Mordaunt  had  tracked  her  to  her  new  home. 
She  was  sick  with  disgust.  Then  her  spirit,  always  strong,  and 
now  freer  for  this  new,  wild  life  of  the  frontier,  rose  within  her, 
and  she  dismissed  all  thoughts  of  this  man  and  his  passion. 

The  old  life  was  dead  and  buried.  She  was  going  to  be  happy 
here.  As  for  the  present,  it  was  enough  to  think  of  the  little 
border  village,  no\v  her  home;  of  her  girl  friends;  of  the  quiet 
borderman:  and,  for  the  moment,  that  the  twilight  was  somber 
and  beautiful. 

High  up  on  the  wooded  bluff  rising  so  gloomily  over  the 


66  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

village,  she  saw  among  the  trees  something  silver-bright.  She 
watched  it  rise  slowly  from  behind  the  trees,  now  hidden,  now 
white  through  rifts  in  the  foliage,  until  it  soared  lovely  and 
grand  above  the  black  horizon.  The  ebony  shadows  of  night 
seemed  to  lift,  as  might  a  sable  mantle  moved  by  invisible 
hands.  But  dark  shadows,  safe  from  the  moon-rays,  lay  under 
the  trees,  and  a  pale,  misty  vapor  hung  below  the  brow  of  the 
bluff. 

Mysterious  as  had  grown  the  night  before  darkness  yielded 
to  the  moon,  this  pale,  white  light  flooding  the  still  valley,  was 
even  more  soft  and  strange.  To  one  of  Helen's  temperament  no 
thought  was  needed;  to  see  was  enough.  Yet  her  mind  was 
active.  She  felt  with  haunting  power  the  beauty  of  all  before 
her;  in  fancy  transporting  herself  far  to  those  silver-tipped 
clouds,  and  peopling  the  dells  and  shady  nooks  under  the  hills 
with  spirits  and  fairies,  maidens  and  valiant  knights.  To  her 
the  day  was  as  a  far-off  dream.  The  great  watch  stars  grew 
wan  before  the  radiant  moon;  it  reigned  alone.  The  immensity 
of  the  world  with  its  glimmering  rivers,  pensive  valleys  and 
deep,  gloomy  forests  lay  revealed  under  the  glory  of  the  clear 
light. 

Absorbed  in  this  contemplation  Helen  remained  a  long  time 
gazing  with  dreamy  ecstasy  at  the  moonlit  valley  until  a  slight 
chill  disturbed  her  happy  thoughts.  She  knew  she  was  not  alone. 
Trembling,  she  stood  up  to  see,  easily  recognizable  in  the  moon- 
light, the  tall  buckskin-garbed  figure  of  Jonathan  Zane. 

"Well,  sir,"  she  called,  sharply,  yet  with  a  tremor  in  her  voice. 

The  borderman  came  forward  and  stood  in  front  of  her. 
Somehow  he  appeard  changed.  The  long,  black  rifle,  the  dull, 
glinting  weapons  made  her  shudder.  Wilder  and  more  untam- 
able he  looked  than  ever.  The  very  silence  of  the  forest  clung 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  (fj 

to  him;  the  fragrance  of  the  grassy  plains  came  faintly  from  his 
buckskin  garments. 

"Evenin',  lass,"  he  said  in  his  slow,  cool  manner. 

"How  did  you  get  here?"  asked  Helen  presently,  because  he 
made  no  effort  to  explain  his  presence  at  such  a  late  hour. 

"I  was  able  to  walk." 

Helen  observed,  with  a  vaulting  spirit,  one  ever  ready  to  rist 
in  arms,  that  Master  Zane  was  disposed  to  add  humor  to  hia 
penetrating  mysteriousness.  She  flushed  hot  and  then  paled. 
This  borderman  certainly  possessed  the  power  to  vex  her,  and, 
reluctantly  she  admitted,  to  chill  her  soul  and  rouse  her  fear 
She  strove  to  keep  back  sharp  words,  because  she  had  learned 
that  this  singular  individual  always  gave  good  reason  for  his 
odd  actions. 

"I  think  in  kindness  to  me,"  she  said,  choosing  her  words 
carefully,  "you  might  tell  me  why  you  appear  so  suddenly,  as  if 
you  had  sprung  out  of  the  ground." 

"Are  you  alone?" 

"Yes.  Father  is  in  bed;  so  is  Mabel,  and  Will  has  not  yet 
come  home.  Why?" 

"Has  no  one  else  been  here?" 

"Mr.  Brandt  came,  as  did  some  others;  but  wishing  to  be 
alone,  I  did  not  see  them,"  replied  Helen  in  perplexity. 

"Have  you  seen  Brandt  since?" 

"Since  when?" 

"The  night  I  watched  by  the  lilac  bush." 

"Yes,  several  times,"  replied  Helen.  Something  in  his  tone 
made  her  ashamed.  "I  couldn't  very  well  escape  when  he  called. 
Are  you  surprised  because  after  he  insulted  me  I'd  see  him?" 

"Yes." 

Helen  felt  more  ashamed. 


68  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

"You  don't  love  him?"  he  continued. 

Helen  was  so  surprised  she  could  only  look  into  the  dark 
face  above  her.  Then  she  dropped  her  gaze,  abashed  by  his 
searching  eyes.  But,  thinking  of  his  question,  she  subdued  the 
vague  stirrings  of  pleasure  in  her  breast,  and  answered  coldly: 

"No,  I  do  not;  but  for  the  service  you  rendered  me  I  should 
never  have  answered  such  a  question." 

"I'm  glad,  an'  hope  you  care  as  little  for  the  other  five  men 
who  were  here  that  night." 

"I  declare,  Master  Zane,  you  seem  exceedingly  interested  in 
the  affairs  of  a  young  woman  whom  you  won't  visit,  except  as 
you  have  come  to-night." 

He  looked  at  her  with  his  piercing  eyes. 

"You  spied  upon  my  guests,"  she  said,  in  no  wise  abashed 
now  that  her  temper  was  high.  "Did  you  care  so  very  much?" 

"Care?"  he  asked  slowly. 

"Yes;  you  were  interested  to  know  how  many  of  my  ad- 
mirers were  here,  what  they  did,  and  what  they  said.  You  even 
hint  disparagingly  of  them." 

"True,  I  wanted  to  know,"  he  replied;  "but  I  don't  hint  about 
any  man." 

"You  are  so  interested  you  wouldn't  call  on  me  when  I  in- 
vited you,"  said  Helen,  with  poorly  veiled  sarcasm.  It  was  this 
that  made  her  bitter;  she  could  never  forget  that  she  had  asked 
this  man  to  come  to  see  her,  and  he  had  refused. 

"I  reckon  you've  mistook  me,"  he  said  calmly. 

"Why  did  you  come?  Why  do  you  shadow  my  friends?  This 
is  twice  you  have  done  it.  Goodness  knows  how  many  times 
you've  been  here!  Tell  me." 

The  borderman  remained  silent. 

"Answer   me,"   commanded   Helen,   her   eyes   blazing.   She 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  69 

actually  stamped  her  foot.  "Borderman  or  not,  you  have  no  right 
to  pry  into  my  affairs.  If  you  are  a  gentleman,  tell  me  why  you 
came  here?" 

The  eyes  Jonathan  turned  on  Helen  stilled  all  the  angry 
throbbing  of  her  blood. 

"I  come  here  to  learn  which  of  your  lovers  is  the  dastard  who 
plotted  the  abduction  of  Mabel  Lane,  an'  the  thief  who  stole 
our  hosses.  When  I  find  the  villain  I  reckon  Wetzel  an'  I'll 
swing  him  to  some  tree." 

The  borderman's  voice  rang  sharp  and  cold,  and  when  he 
ceased  speaking  she  sank  back  upon  the  step,  shocked,  speech* 
less,  to  gaze  up  at  him  with  staring  eyes. 

"Don't  look  so,  lass;  don't  be  frightened,"  he  said,  his  voice 
gentle  and  kind  as  it  had  been  hard.  He  took  her  hand  in  his. 
"You  nettled  me  into  replyin'.  You  have  a  sharp  tongue,  lass, 
and  when  I  spoke  I  was  thinkin'  of  him.  I'm  sorry." 

"A  horse-thief  and  worse  than  murderer  among  my  friends!" 
murmured  Helen,  shuddering,  yet  she  never  thought  to  doubt 
his  word. 

"I  followed  him  here  the  night  of  your  company." 

"Do  you  know  which  one?" 

"No." 

He  still  held  her  hand,  unconsciously,  but  Helen  knew  it 
well.  A  sense  of  his  strength  came  with  the  warm  pressure,  and 
comforted  her.  She  would  need  that  powerful  hand,  surely,  in 
the  evil  days  which  seemed  to  darken  the  horizon. 

"What  shall  I  do?"  she  whispered,  shuddering  again. 

"Keep  this  secret  between  you  an'  me." 

"How  can  I?  How  can  I?" 

"You  must,"  his  voice  was  deep  and  low.  "If  you  tell  your 
father,  or  any  one.  I  might  lose  the  chance  to  find  this  man,  for, 


TO  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

lass,  he's  desperate  cunnin'.  Then  he'd  go  free  to  rob  others, 
an'  mebbe  help  make  off  with  other  poor  girls.  Lass,  keep  my 
secret." 

"But  he  might  try  to  carry  me  away,"  said  Helen  in  fearful 
perplexity. 

"Most  likely  he  might,"  replied  the  borderman  with  the  smile 
that  came  so  rarely. 

"Oh!  Knowing  all  this,  how  can  I  meet  any  of  these  men 
again?  I'd  betray  myself." 

"No;  you've  got  too  much  pluck.  It  so  happens  you  are  the 
one  to  help  me  an'  Wetzel  rid  the  border  of  these  hell-hounds, 
an'  you  won't  fail.  I  know  a  woman  when  it  comes  to  that." 

"I— I  help  you  and  Wetzel?" 

"Exactly." 

"Gracious!"  cried  Helen,  half -laughing,  half -crying.  "And 
poor  me  with  more  trouble  coming  on  the  next  boat." 

"Lass,  the  colonel  told  me  about  the  Englishman.  It'll  be  bad 
for  him  to  annoy  you." 

Helen  thrilled  with  the  depth  of  meaning  in  the  low  voice. 
Fate  surely  was  weaving  a  bond  between  her  and  this  border- 
man. She  felt  it  in  his  steady,  piercing  gaze;  in  her  own  tingling 
blood. 

Then  as  her  natural  courage  dispelled  all  girlish  fears,  she 
faced  him,  white,  resolute,  with  a  look  in  her  eyes  that  matched 
his  own. 

"I  will  do  what  I  can,"  she  said. 


THE  LAST  TRAIL 


CHAPTER  VII 

WESTWARD  from  Fort  Henry,  far  above  the  eddying  river,  Jona- 
than Zane  slowly  climbed  a  narrow,  hazel-bordered,  mountain 
trail.  From  time  to  time  he  stopped  in  an  open  patch  among 
the  thickets  and  breathed  deep  of  the  fresh,  wood-scented  air, 
while  his  keen  gaze  swept  over  the  glades  near  by,  along  the 
wooded  hillsides,  and  above  at  the  timber-strewn  woodland. 

This  June  morning  in  the  wild  forest  was  significant  of  na- 
ture's brightness  and  joy.  Broad-leaved  poplars,  dense  foliaged 
oaks,  and  vine-covered  maples  shaded  cool,  mossy  banks,  while 
between  the  trees  the  sunshine  streamed  in  bright  spots.  It 
shone  silver  on  the  glancing  silver-leaf,  and  gold  on  the  colored 
leaves  of  the  butternut  tree.  Dewdrops  glistened  on  the  ferns; 
ripples  sparkled  in  the  brooks;  spider-webs  glowed  with  won- 
drous rainbow  hues,  and  the  flower  of  the  forest,  the  sweet, 
pale-faced  daisy,  rose  above  the  green  like  a  white  star. 

Yellow  birds  flitted  among  the  hazel  bushes  caroling  joy- 
ously, and  cat-birds  sang  gaily.  Robins  called;  bluejays  screeched 
in  the  tall,  white  oaks;  wood-peckers  hammered  in  the  dead 
hard-woods,  and  crows  cawed  overhead.  Squirrels  chattered 
everywhere.  Ruffed  grouse  rose  with  great  bustle  and  a  whirr, 
flitting  like  brown  flakes  through  the  leaves.  From  far  above 
came  the  shrill  cry  of  a  hawk,  followed  by  the  wilder  scream  of 
an  eagle. 

Wilderness  music  such  as  all  this  fell  harmoniously  on  the 
borderman's  ear.  It  betokened  the  gladsome  spirit  of  his  wild 
friends,  happy  in  the  warm  sunshine  above,  or  in  the  cool  depths 


^2  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

beneath  the  fluttering  leaves,  and  everywhere  in  those  lonely 
haunts  unalarmed  and  free. 

Familiar  to  Jonathan,  almost  as  the  footpath  near  his  home, 
was  this  winding  trail.  On  the  height  above  was  a  safe  rendez- 
vous, much  frequented  by  him  and  Wetzel.  Every  lichen-covered 
stone,  mossy  bank,  noisy  brook  and  giant  oak  on  the  way  up 
this  mountain-side,  could  have  told,  had  they  spoken  their  se- 
crets, stories  of  the  bordermen.  The  fragile  ferns  and  slender- 
bladed  grasses  peeping  from  the  gray  and  amber  mosses,  and 
the  flowers  that  hung  from  craggy  ledges,  had  wisdom  to  im- 
part. A  borderman  lived  under  the  green  tree-tops,  and,  there- 
fore, all  the  nodding  branches  of  sassafras  and  laurel,  the  grassy 
slopes  and  rocky  cliffs,  the  stately  ash  trees,  kingly  oaks  and 
dark,  mystic  pines,  together  with  the  creatures  that  dwelt  among 
them,  save  his  deadly  red-skinned  foes,  he  loved.  Other  affection 
as  close  and  true  as  this,  he  had  not  known.  Hearkening  thus 
with  single  heart  to  nature's  teachings,  he  learned  her  secrets. 
Certain  it  was,  therefore,  that  the  many  hours  he  passed  in  the 
woods  apart  from  savage  pursuits,  were  happy  and  fruitful. 

Slowly  he  pressed  on  up  the  ascent,  at  length  coming  into 
open  light  upon  a  small  plateau  marked  by  huge,  rugged, 
weather-chipped  stones.  On  the  eastern  side  was  a  rocky  prom- 
ontory, and  close  to  the  edge  of  this  cliff,  an  hundred  feet  in 
sheer  descent,  rose  a  gnarled,  time  and  tempest-twisted  chest- 
nut tree.  Here  the  borderman  laid  down  his  rifle  and  knap- 
sack, and,  half-reclining  against  the  tree,  settled  himself  to 
rest  and  wait. 

This  craggy  point  was  the  lonely  watch-tower  of  eagles.  Here 
on  the  highest  headland  for  miles  around  where  the  bordermen 
Were  wont  to  meet,  the  outlook  was  far-reaching  and  grand. 

Below  the  gray,  splintered  cliffs  sheered  down  to  meet  the 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  73 

waving  tree-tops,  and  then  hill  after  hill,  slope  after  slope,  waved 
and  rolled  far,  far  down  to  the  green  river.  Open  grassy  patches, 
bright  little  islands  in  that  ocean  of  dark  green,  shone  on  the 
hillsides.  The  rounded  ridges  ran  straight,  curved,  or  zigzag,  but 
shaped  their  graceful  lines  in  the  descent  to  make  the  valley. 
Long,  purple-hued,  shadowy  depressions  in  the  wide  expanse  of 
foliage  marked  deep  clefts  between  ridges  where  dark,  cool 
streams  bounded  on  to  meet  the  river.  Lower,  where  the  land 
was  level,  in  open  spaces  could  be  seen  a  broad  trail,  yellow  in 
the  sunlight,  winding  along  with  the  curves  of  the  water-course. 
On  a  swampy  meadow,  blue  in  the  distance,  a  herd  of  buffalo 
browsed.  Beyond  the  river,  high  over  the  green  island,  Fort 
Henry  lay  peaceful  and  solitary,  the  only  token  of  the  works  of 
man  in  all  that  vast  panorama. 

Jonathan  Zane  was  as  much  alone  as  if  one  thousand  miles, 
instead  of  five,  intervened  between  him  and  the  settlement. 
Loneliness  was  to  him  a  passion.  Other  men  loved  home,  the 
Sight  of  woman's  eyes,  the  rattle  of  dice  or  the  lust  of  hoarding; 
but  to  him  this  wild,  remote  promontory,  with  its  limitless  view, 
stretching  away  to  the  dim  hazy  horizon,  was  more  than  all  the 
aching  joys  of  civilization. 

Hours  here,  or  in  the  shady  valley,  recompensed  him  for  the 
loss  of  home  comforts,  the  soft  touch  of  woman's  hands,  the  kiss 
of  baby  lips,  and  also  for  all  he  suffered  in  his  pitiless  pursuits, 
the  hard  fare,  the  steel  and  blood  of  a  borderman's  life. 

Soon  the  sun  shone  straight  overhead,  dwarfing  the  shadow 
of  the  chestnut  on  the  rock. 

During  such  a  time  it  was  rare  that  any  connected  thought 
came  into  the  borderman's  mind.  His  dark  eyes,  now  strangely 
luminous,  strayed  lingeringly  over  those  purple,  undulating 
slopes.  This  intense  watchfulness  had  no  object,  neither  had  his 


74  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

listening.  He  watched  nothing;  he  hearkened  to  the  silence.  Un- 
doubtedly in  this  state  of  rapt  absorption  his  perceptions  were 
acutely  alert;  but  without  thought,  as  were  those  of  the  savage 
ia  the  valley  below,  or  the  eagle  in  the  sky  above. 

Yet  so  perfectly  trained  were  these  perceptions  that  the  least 
unnatural  sound  or  sight  brought  him  wary  and  watchful  from 
his  dreamy  trance. 

The  slight  snapping  of  a  twig  in  the  thicket  caused  him  to  sit 
erect,  and  reach  out  toward  his  rifle.  His  eyes  moved  among  the 
dark  openings  in  the  thicket.  In  another  moment  a  tall  figure 
pressed  the  bushes  apart.  Jonathan  let  fall  his  rifle,  and  sank 
back  against  the  tree  once  more.  Wetzel  stepped  over  the  rocks 
toward  him. 

"Come  from  Blue  Pond?"  asked  Jonathan  as  the  newcomer 
took  a  seat  beside  him. 

Wetzel  nodded  as  he  carefully  laid  aside  his  long,  black  rifle. 

"Any  Injun  sign?"  continued  Jonathan,  pushing  toward  his 
companion  the  knapsack  of  eatables  he  had  brought  from  the 
settlement. 

"Nary  Shawnee  track  west  of  this  divide,"  answered  Wetzel, 
helping  himself  to  bread  and  cheese. 

"Lew,  we  must  go  eastward,  over  Bing  Legget's  way,  to  find 
the  trail  of  the  stolen  horses." 

"Likely,  an'  it'll  be  a  long,  hard  tramp." 

"Who's  in  Legget's  gang  now  beside  Old  Horse,  the  Chip- 
pewa,  an'  his  Shawnee  pard,  Wildfire?  I  don't  know  Bing;  but 
I've  seen  some  of  his  Injuns  an'  they  remember  me." 

"Never  seen  Legget  but  onct,"  replied  Wetzel,  "an'  that  time 
I  shot  half  his  face  off.  I've  been  told  by  them  as  have  seen  him 
since,  that  he's  got  a  nasty  scar  on  his  temple  an'  cheek.  He's  a 
big  man  an'  knows  the  woods.  I  don't  know  who  all's  in  his  gang, 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  75 

nor  does  anybody.  He  works  in  the  dark,  an'  for  cunnin'  he's 
got  some  on  Jim  Girty,  Deerin',  an'  several  more  renegades  we 
know  of  lyin'  quiet  back  here  in  the  woods.  We  never  tackled 
as  bad  a  gang  as  his'n;  they're  all  experienced  woodsmen,  old 
fighters,  an'  desperate,  outlawed  as  they  be  by  Injuns  an'  whites. 
It  wouldn't  surprise  me  to  find  that  it's  him  an'  his  gang  who 
are  runnin'  this  hoss-thievin';  but  bad  or  no,  we're  goin'  after 
'em." 

Jonathan  told  of  his  movements  since  he  had  last  seen  his 
companion. 

"An'  the  lass  Helen  is  goin'  to  help  us,"  said  Wetzel,  much 
interested.  "It's  a  good  move.  Women  are  keen.  Betty  put  Miller's 
schemin'  in  my  eye  long  'afore  I  noticed  it.  But  girls  have  chances 
we  men'd  never  get." 

"Yes,  an'  she's  like  Betts,  quicker 'n  lightnin'.  She'll  find  out 
this  hoss-thief  in  Fort  Henry;  but  Lew,  when  we  do  get  him  we 
won't  be  much  better  of?.  Where  do  them  hosses  go?  Who's 
disposin'  of  'em  for  this  fellar?" 

"Where's  Brandt  from?"  asked  Wetzel. 

"Detroit;  he's  a  French-Canadian." 

Wetzel  swung  sharply  around,  his  eyes  glowing  like  wakening 
furnaces. 

"Bing  Legget's  a  French-Canadian,  an'  from  Detroit.  Metzar 
was  once  thick  with  him  down  Fort  Pitt  way  'afore  he  murdered 
a  man  an'  became  an  outlaw.  We're  on  the  trail,  Jack." 

"Brandt  an'  Metzar,  with  Legget  backin'  them,  an'  the  horses 
go  overland  to  Detroit?" 

"I  calkilate  you've  hit  the  mark." 

"What'll  we  do?"  asked  Jonathan. 

"Wait;  that's  best.  We've  no  call  to  hurry.  We  must  know 
the  truth  before  makin'  a  move,  an'  as  yet  we're  only  suspicious. 


j6  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

This  lass'll  find  out  more  in  a  week  than  we  could  in  a  year. 
But  Jack,  have  a  care  she  don't  fall  into  any  snare.  Brandt  ain't 
any  too  honest  a  lookin'  chap,  an'  them  renegades  is  hell  for 
women.  The  scars  you  wear  prove  that  well  enough.  She's  a  rare, 
sweet,  bloomin'  lass,  too.  I  never  seen  her  equal.  I  remember  how 
her  eyes  flashed  when  she  said  she  knew  I'd  avenged  Mabel. 
Jack,  they're  wonderful  eyes;  an'  that  girl,  however  sweet  an' 
good  as  she  must  be,  is  chain-lightnin'  wrapped  up  in  a  beautiful 
form.  Aren't  the  boys  at  the  fort  runnin'  arter  her?" 

"Like  mad;  it'd  make  you  laugh  to  see  'em,"  replied  Jonathan 
calmly. 

"There'll  be  some  fights  before  she's  settled  for,  an'  mebbe 
arter  thet.  Have  a  care  for  her,  Jack,  an'  see  that  she  don't  ketch 
you." 

"No  more  danger  than  for  you." 

"I  was  ketched  onct,"  replied  Wetzel. 

Jonathan  Zane  looked  up  at  his  companion.  Wetzel's  head  was 
bowed;  but  there  was  no  merriment  in  the  serious  face  exposed 
to  the  borderman's  scrutiny. 

"Lew,  you're  jokin'." 

"Not  me.  Some  day,  when  you're  ketched  good,  an'  I  have  to 
go  back  to  the  lonely  trail,  as  I  did  afore  you  an'  me  become 
friends,  mebbe  then,  when  I'm  the  last  borderman,  I'll  tell  you." 

"Lew,  'cordin'  to  the  way  settlers  are  comin',  in  a  few  more 
years  there  won't  be  any  need  for  a  borderman.  When  the  Injuns 
are  all  gone  where'll  be  our  work?" 

"  'Tain't  likely  either  of  us'll  ever  see  them  times,"  said  Wet- 
zel, "an'  I  don't  want  to.  Wai,  Jack,  I'm  off  now,  an'  I'll  meet 
you  here  every  other  day." 

Wetzel  shouldered  his  long  rifle,  and  soon  passed  out  of  sight 
down  the  mountain-side. 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  77 

Jonathan  arose,  shook  himself  as  a  big  dog  might  have  done, 
and  went  down  into  the  valley.  Only  once  did  he  pause  in  his 
descent,  and  that  was  when  a  crackling  twig  warned  him  some 
heavy  body  was  moving  near.  Silently  he  sank  into  the  bushes 
bordering  the  trail.  He  listened  with  his  ear  close  to  the  ground. 
Presently  he  heard  a  noise  as  of  two  hard  substances  striking 
together.  He  resumed  his  walk,  having  recognized  the  grating 
noise  of  a  deer-hoof  striking  a  rock.  Farther  down  he  espied  a 
pair  grazing.  The  buck  ran  into  the  thicket;  but  the  doe  eyed  him 
curiously. 

Less  than  an  hour's  rapid  walking  brought  him  to  the  river. 
Here  he  plunged  into  a  thicket  of  willows,  and  emerged  on  a 
sandy  strip  of  shore.  He  carefully  surveyed  the  river  bank,  and 
then  pulled  a  small  birch-bark  canoe  from  among  the  foliage.  He 
launched  the  frail  craft,  paddled  across  the  river  and  beached  it 
under  a  reedy,  over-hanging  bank. 

The  distance  from  this  point  in  a  straight  line  to  his  destina- 
tion was  only  a  mile;  but  a  rocky  bluff  and  a  ravine  necessitated 
his  making  a  wide  detour.  While  lightly  leaping  over  a  brook  his 
keen  eye  fell  on  an  imprint  in  the  sandy  loam.  Instantly  he  was 
on  his  knees.  The  footprint  was  small,  evidently  a  woman's,  and, 
what  was  more  unusual,  instead  of  the  flat,  round  moccasin-track, 
it  was  pointed,  with  a  sharp,  square  heel.  Such  shoes  were  not 
worn  by  border  girls.  True  Betty  and  Nell  had  them;  but  they 
never  went  into  the  woods  without  moccasins. 

Jonathan's  experienced  eye  saw  that  this  imprint  was  not  an 
hour  old.  He  gazed  up  at  the  light.  The  day  was  growing  short. 
Already  shadows  lay  in  the  glens.  He  would  not  long  have  light 
enough  to  follow  the  trail;  but  he  hurried  on  hoping  to  find  the 
person  who  made  it  before  darkness  came.  He  had  not  traveled 
many  paces  before  learning  that  the  one  who  made  it  was  lost. 


78  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

The  uncertainty  in  those  hasty  steps  was  as  plain  to  the  border- 
man's  eyes,  as  if  it  had  been  written  in  words  on  the  sand.  The 
course  led  along  the  brook,  avoiding  the  rough  places,  and  lead- 
ing into  the  open  glades  and  glens;  but  it  drew  no  nearer  to  the 
settlement.  A  quarter  of  an  hour  of  rapid  trailing  enabled  Jona- 
than to  discern  a  dark  figure  moving  among  the  trees.  Abandon- 
ing the  trail,  he  cut  across  a  ridge  to  head  off  the  lost  woman. 
Stepping  out  of  a  sassafras  thicket,  he  came  face  to  face  with 
Helen  Sheppard. 

"Oh!"  she  cried  in  alarm,  and  then  the  expression  of  terror 
gave  place  to  one  of  extreme  relief  and  gladness.  "Oh!  Thank 
goodness!  You've  found  me.  I'm  lost!" 

"I  reckon,"  answered  Jonathan  grimly.  "The  settlement's  only 
five  hundred  yards  over  that  hill." 

"I  was  going  the  wrong  way.  Oh!  suppose  you  hadn't  come!" 
exclaimed  Helen,  sinking  on  a  log  and  looking  up  at  him  with 
warm,  glad  eyes. 

"How  did  you  lose  your  way?"  Jonathan  asked.  He  saw 
neither  the  warmth  in  her  eyes  nor  the  gladness. 

"I  went  up  the  hillside,  only  a  little  way,  after  flowers,  keeping 
the  fort  in  sight  all  the  time.  Then  I  saw  some  lovely  violets 
down  a  little  hill,  and  thought  I  might  venture.  I  found  such 
loads  of  them  I  forgot  everything  else,  and  I  must  have  walked 
on  a  little  way.  On  turning  to  go  back  I  couldn't  find  the  little 
hill.  I  have  hunted  in  vain  for  the  clearing.  It  seems  as  if  I  have 
been  wandering  about  for  hours.  I'm  so  glad  you've  found  me!" 

"Weren't  you  told  to  stay  in  the  settlement,  inside  the  clear- 
ing?" demanded  Jonathan. 

''Yes,"  replied  Helen,  with  her  head  up. 

"Why  didn't  you?" 

"Because  I  didn't  choose." 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  79 

"You  ought  to  have  better  sense." 

"It  seems  I  hadn't,"  Helen  said  quietly,  but  her  eyes  belied 
that  calm  voice. 

"You're  a  headstrong  child,"  Jonathan  added  curtly. 

"Mr.  Zane!"  cried  Helen  with  pale  face. 

"I  suppose  you've  always  had  your  own  sweet  will;  but  out 
here  on  the  border  you  ought  to  think  a  little  of  others,  if  not  of 
yourself." 

Helen  maintained  a  proud  silence. 

"You  might  have  run  right  into  prowlin'  Shawnees." 

"That  dreadful  disaster  would  not  have  caused  you  any  sor- 
row," she  flashed  out. 

"Of  course  it  would.  I  might  have  lost  my  scalp  tryin'  to  get 
you  back  home,"  said  Jonathan,  beginning  to  hesitate.  Plainly  he 
did  not  know  what  to  make  of  this  remarkable  young  woman. 

"Such  a  pity  to  have  lost  all  your  fine  hair,"  she  answered 
with  a  touch  of  scorn. 

Jonathan  flushed,  perhaps  for  the  first  time  in  his  life.  If  there 
was  anything  he  was  proud  of,  it  was  his  long,  glossy  hair. 

"Miss  Helen,  I'm  a  poor  hand  at  words,"  he  said,  with  a  pale, 
grave  face.  "I  was  only  speakin'  for  your  own  good." 

"You  are  exceedingly  kind;  but  need  not  trouble  yourself." 

"Say,"  Jonathan  hesitated,  looking  half-vexed  at  the  lovely^ 
angry  face.  Then  an  idea  occurred  to  him.  "Well,  I  won't  trou- 
ble. Find  your  way  home  yourself." 

Abruptly  he  turned  and  walked  slowly  away.  He  had  no  idea 
of  allowing  her  to  go  home  alone;  but  believed  it  might  be  well 
for  her  to  think  so.  If  she  did  not  call  him  back  he  would  remain 
near  at  hand,  and  when  she  showed  signs  of  anxiety  or  fear  he 
could  go  to  her. 

Helen  determined  she  would  die  in  the  woods,  or  be  captured 


8o  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

by  Shawnees,  before  calling  him  back.  But  she  watched  him. 
Slowly  the  tall,  strong  figure,  with  its  graceful,  springy  stride, 
went  down  the  glade.  He  would  be  lost  to  view  in  a  moment, 
and  then  she  would  be  alone.  How  dark  it  had  suddenly  become! 
The  gray  cloak  of  twilight  was  spread  over  the  forest,  and  in  the 
hollows  night  already  had  settled  down.  A  breathless  silence  per- 
vaded the  woods.  How  lonely!  thought  Helen,  with  a  shiver. 
Surely  it  would  be  dark  before  she  could  find  the  settlement. 
What  hill  hid  the  settlement  from  view?  She  did  not  know, 
could  not  remember  which  he  had  pointed  out.  Suddenly  she 
began  to  tremble.  She  had  been  so  frightened  before  he  had 
found  her,  and  so  relieved  afterward;  and  now  he  was  going 
away. 

"Mr.  Zane,"  she  cried  with  a  great  effort.  "Come  back." 

Jonathan  kept  slowly  on. 

"Come  back,  Jonathan,  please." 

The  borderman  retraced  his  steps. 

"Please  take  me  home,"  she  said,  lifting  a  fair  face  all  flushed, 
tear-stained,  and  marked  with  traces  of  storm.  "I  was  foolish, 
and  silly  to  come  into  the  woods,  and  so  glad  to  see  you!  But 
you  spoke  to  me — in — in  a  way  no  one  ever  used  before.  I'm  sure 
I  deserved  it.  Please  take  me  home.  Papa  will  be  worried." 

Softer  eyes  and  voice  than  hers  never  entreated  man. 

"Come,"  he  said  gently,  and,  taking  her  by  the  hand,  he  led 
her  up  the  ridge. 

Thus  they  passed  through  the  darkening  forest,  hand  in  hand, 
like  a  dusky  redman  and  his  bride.  He  helped  her  over  stones 
and  logs>  but  still  held  her  hand  when  there  was  no  need  of  it. 
She  looked  up  to  see  him  walking,  so  dark  and  calm  beside  her, 
his  eyes  ever  roving  among  the  trees.  Deepest  remorse  came  upon 
her  because  of  what  she  had  said.  There  was  no  sentiment  for 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  8l 

him  in  this  walk  under  the  dark  canopy  of  the  leaves.  He  realized 
the  responsibility.  Any  tree  might  hide  a  treacherous  foe.  She 
would  atone  for  her  sarcasm,  she  promised  herself,  while  walk- 
ing, ever  conscious  of  her  hand  in  his,  her  bosom  heaving  with 
the  sweet,  undeniable  emotion  which  came  knocking  at  her  heart. 

Soon  they  were  out  of  the  thicket,  and  on  the  dusty  lane.  A 
few  moments  of  rapid  walking  brought  them  within  sight  of  the 
twinkling  lights  of  the  village,  and  a  moment  later  they  were 
at  the  lane  leading  to  Helen's  home.  Releasing  her  hand,  she 
stopped  him  with  a  light  touch  and  said: 

"Please  don't  tell  papa  or  Colonel  Zane." 

"Child,  I  ought.  Some  one  should  make  you  stay  at  home." 

"I'll  stay.  Please  don't  tell.  It  will  worry  papa." 

Jonathan  Zane  looked  down  into  her  great,  dark,  wonderful 
eyes  with  an  unaccountable  feeling.  He  really  did  not  hear  what 
she  asked.  Something  about  that  upturned  face  brought  to  his 
mind  a  rare  and  perfect  flower  which  grew  in  far-off  rocky  fast- 
nesses. The  feeling  he  had  was  intangible,  like  no  more  than  a 
breath  of  fragrant  western  wind,  faint  with  tidings  of  some 
beautiful  field. 

"Promise  me  you  won't  tell." 

"Well,  lass,  have  it  your  own  way,"  replied  Jonathan,  wonder- 
ingly  conscious  that  it  was  the  first  pledge  ever  asked  of  him  by 
a  woman. 

"Thank  you.  Now  we  have  two  secrets,  haven't  we?"  she 
laughed,  with  eyes  like  stars. 

"Run  home  now,  lass.  Be  careful  hereafter.  I  do  fear  for  you 
with  such  spirit  an'  temper.  I'd  rather  be  scalped  by  Shawnees 
than  have  Bing  Legget  so  much  as  set  eyes  on  you." 

"You  would?  Why?"  Her  voice  was  like  low,  soft  music. 


82  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

"Why?"  he  mused.  "It'd  seem  like  a  buzzard  about  to  light  on 
a  doe." 

"Good-night,"  said  Helen  abruptly,  and,  wheeling,  she  hurried 
down  the  lane. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

"JACK,"  said  Colonel  Zane  to  his  brother  next  morning,  "to-day 
is  Saturday  and  all  the  men  will  be  in.  There  was  high  jinks 
over  at  Metzar's  place  yesterday,  and  I'm  looking  for  more  to- 
day. The  two  fellows  Alex  Bennet  told  me  about,  came  on  day- 
before-yesterday's  boat.  Sure  enough,  one's  a  lordly  Englishman, 
and  the  other,  the  cussedest-looking  little  chap  I  ever  saw.  They 
started  trouble  immediately.  The  Englishman,  his  name  is  Mor- 
daunt,  hunted  up  the  Sheppards  and  as  near  as  I  can  make  out 
from  George's  story,  Helen  spoke  her  mind  very  plainly.  Mor- 
daunt  and  Case,  that's  his  servant,  the  little  cuss,  got  drunk  and 
raised  hell  down  at  Metzar's  where  they're  staying.  Brandt  and 
Williams  are  drinking  hard,  too,  which  is  something  unusual  for 
Brandt.  They  got  chummy  at  once  with  the  Englishman,  who 
seems  to  have  plenty  of  gold  and  is  fond  of  gambling.  This 
Mordaunt  is  a  gentleman,  or  I  never  saw  one.  I  feel  sorry  for 
him.  He  appears  to  be  a  ruined  man.  If  he  lasts  a  week  out  here 
I'll  be  surprised.  Case  looks  ugly,  as  if  he  were  spoiling  to  cut 
somebody.  I  want  you  to  keep  your  eye  peeled.  The  day  may  pass 
off  as  many  other  days  of  drinking  bouts  have,  without  anything 
serious,  and  on  the  other  hand  there's  liable  to  be  trouble." 

Jonathan's  preparations  were  characteristic  of  the  borderman. 
He  laid  aside  his  rifle,  and,  removing  his  short  coat,  buckled  on 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  83 

a  second  belt  containing  a  heavier  tomahawk  and  knife  than 
those  he  had  been  wearing.  Then  he  put  on  his  hunting  frock, 
or  shirt,  and  wore  it  loose  with  the  belts  underneath,  instead  of 
on  the  outside.  Unfastened,  the  frock  was  rather  full,  and  gave 
him  the  appearance  of  a  man  unarmed  and  careless. 

Jonathan  Zane  was  not  so  reckless  as  to  court  danger,  nor,  like 
many  frontiersmen,  fond  of  fighting  for  its  own  sake.  Colonel 
Zane  was  commandant  of  the  fort,  and,  in  a  land  where  there 
was  no  law,  tried  to  maintain  a  semblance  of  it.  For  years  he  had 
kept  thieves,  renegades  and  outlaws  away  from  his  little  settle- 
ment by  dealing  out  stern  justice.  His  word  was  law,  and  his 
bordermen  executed  it  as  such.  Therefore  Jonathan  and  Wetzel 
made  it  their  duty  to  have  a  keen  eye  on  all  that  was  happening. 
They  kept  the  colonel  posted,  and  never  interfered  in  any  case 
without  orders. 

The  morning  passed  quietly.  Jonathan  strolled  here  or  loitered 
there;  but  saw  none  of  the  roisterers.  He  believed  they  were 
sleeping  off  the  effects  of  their  orgy  on  the  previous  evening. 
After  dinner  he  smoked  his  pipe.  Betty  and  Helen  passed,  and 
Helen  smiled.  It  struck  him  suddenly  that  she  had  never  looked 
at  him  in  such  a  way  before.  There  was  meaning  in  that  warm, 
radiant  flash.  A  little  sense  of  vexation,  the  source  of  which  he 
did  not  understand,  stirred  in  him  against  this  girl;  but  with  it 
came  the  realization  that  her  white  face  and  big,  dark  eyes  had 
risen  before  him  often  since  the  night  before.  He  wished,  for  the 
first  time,  that  he  could  understand  women  better. 

"Everything  quiet?"  asked  Colonel  Zane,  coming  out  on  the 
steps. 

"All  quiet,"  answered  Jonathan. 

"They'll  open  up  later,  I  suspect.  I'm  going  over  to  Sheppard's 
for  a  while,  and,  later,  will  drop  into  Metzar's.  I'll  make  him 


84  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

haul  in  a  yard  or  two.  I  don't  like  things  I  hear  about  his  selling 
the  youngsters  rum.  I'd  like  you  to  be  within  call." 

The  borderman  strolled  down  the  bluff  and  along  the  path 
which  overhung  the  river.  He  disliked  Metzar  more  than  his 
brother  suspected,  and  with  more  weighty  reason  than  that  of 
selling  rum  to  minors.  Jonathan  threw  himself  at  length  on  the 
ground  and  mused  over  the  situation. 

"We  never  had  any  peace  in  this  settlement,  an'  never  will  in 
our  day.  Eb  is  hopeful  an'  looks  at  the  bright  side,  always  ex- 
pectin'  to-morrow  will  be  different.  What  have  the  past  sixteen 
years  been  ?  One  long  bloody  fight,  an'  the  next  sixteen  won't  be 
any  better.  I  make  out  that  we'll  have  a  mix-up  soon.  Metzar  an' 
Brandt  with  their  allies,  whoever  they  are,  will  be  in  it,  an'  if 
Bing  Legget's  in  the  gang,  we've  got,  as  Wetzel  said,  a  long,  hard 
trail,  which  may  be  our  last.  More'n  that,  there'll  be  trouble  about 
this  chain-lightnin'  girl,  as  Wetzel  predicted.  Women  make  trou- 
ble anyways;  an'  when  they're  winsome  an'  pretty  they  cause 
more;  but  if  they're  beautiful  an'  fiery,  bent  on  havin'  their  way, 
as  this  new  lass  is,  all  hell  couldn't  hold  a  candle  to  them.  We 
don't  need  the  Shawnees  an'  Girtys,  an'  hoss  thieves  round  this 
here  settlement  to  stir  up  excitin'  times,  now  we've  got  this  dark- 
eyed  lass.  An'  yet  any  fool  could  see  she's  sweet,  an'  good,  an' 
true  as  gold." 

Toward  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  Jonathan  sauntered  in 
the  direction  of  Metzar's  inn.  It  lay  on  the  front  of  the  bluff, 
with  its  main  doors  looking  into  the  road.  A  long,  one-story  log 
structure  with  two  doors,  answered  as  a  bar-room.  The  inn 
proper  was  a  building  more  pretentious,  and  joined  the  smaller 
one  at  its  western  end.  Several  horses  were  hitched  outside,  and 
two  great  oxen  yoked  to  a  cumbersome  mud-crusted  wagon 
stood  patiently  by. 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  85 

Jonathan  bent  his  tall  head  as  he  entered  the  noisy  bar-room. 
The  dingy  place  reeked  with  tobacco  smoke  and  the  fumes  of 
vile  liquor.  It  was  crowded  with  men.  The  lawlessness  of  the 
time  and  place  was  evident.  Gaunt,  red-faced  frontiersmen  reeled 
to  and  fro  across  the  sawdust  floor;  hunters  and  fur-traders, 
raftsmen  and  farmers,  swelled  the  motley  crowd;  young  men, 
honest-faced,  but  flushed  and  wild  with  drink,  hung  over  the 
bar;  a  group  of  sullen-visaged,  serpent-eyed  Indians  held  one 
corner.  The  black-bearded  proprietor  dealt  out  the  rum. 

From  beyond  the  bar-room,  through  a  door  entering  upon  the 
back  porch,  came  the  rattling  of  dice.  Jonathan  crossed  the  bar- 
room apparently  oblivious  to  the  keen  glance  Metzar  shot  at 
him,  and  went  out  upon  the  porch.  This  also  was  crowded,  but 
there  was  more  room  because  of  greater  space.  At  one  table  sat 
some  pioneers  drinking  and  laughing;  at  another  were  three  men 
playing  with  dice.  Colonel  Zane,  Silas,  and  Sheppard  were  among 
the  lookers-on  at  the  game.  Jonathan  joined  them,  and  gazed  at 
the  gamesters. 

Brandt  he  knew  well  enough;  he  had  seen  that  set,  wolfish 
expression  in  the  riverman's  face  before.  He  observed,  however, 
that  the  man  had  flushed  cheeks  and  trembling  hands,  indica- 
tions of  hard  drinking.  The  player  sitting  next  to  Brandt  was 
Williams,  one  of  the  garrison,  and  a  good-natured  fellow,  but 
garrulous  and  wickedly  disposed  when  drunk.  The  remaining 
player  Jonathan  at  once  saw  was  the  Englishman,  Mordaunt. 
He  was  a  handsome  man,  with  fair  skin,  and  long,  silken,  blond 
mustache.  Heavy  lines,  and  purple  shades  under  his  blue  eyes, 
were  die  unmistakable  stamp  of  dissipation.  Reckless,  dissolute, 
Ha//  as  he  looked,  there  yet  clung  something  favorable  about  the 
man.  Perhaps  it  was  his  cool,  devil-may-care  way  as  he  pushed 
over  gold  piece  after  gold  piece  from  the  fast  diminishing  pile 


86  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

before  him.  His  velvet  frock  and  silken  doublet  had  once  been 
elegant;  but  were  now  sadly  the  worse  for  border  roughing. 

Behind  the  Englishman's  chair  Jonathan  saw  a  short  man  with 
a  face  resembling  that  of  a  jackal.  The  grizzled,  stubbly  beard, 
the  protruding,  vicious  mouth,  the  broad,  flat  nose,  and  deep-set, 
small,  glittering  eyes  made  a  bad  impression  on  the  observer. 
This  man,  Jonathan  concluded,  was  the  servant,  Case,  who  was 
so  eager  with  his  knife.  The  borderman  made  the  reflection,  that 
if  knife-play  was  the  little  man's  pastime,  he  was  not  likely  to 
go  short  of  sport  in  that  vicinity. 

Colonel  Zane  attracted  Jonathan's  attention  at  this  moment. 
The  pioneers  had  vacated  the  other  table,  and  Silas  and  Shep- 
pard  now  sat  by  it.  The  colonel  wanted  his  brother  to  join  them. 

"Here,  Johnny,  bring  drinks,"  he  said  to  the  serving  boy.  "Tell 
Metzar  who  they're  for."  Then  turning  to  Sheppard  he  con- 
tinued: "He  keeps  good  whiskey;  but  few  of  these  poor  devils 
ever  see  it."  At  the  same  time  Colonel  Zane  pressed  his  foot  upon 
that  of  Jonathan's. 

The  borderman  understood  that  the  signal  was  intended  to 
call  attention  to  Brandt.  The  latter  had  leaned  forward,  as  Jona- 
than passed  by  to  take  a  seat  with  his  brother,  and  said  some- 
thing in  a  low  tone  to  Mordaunt  and  Case.  Jonathan  knew  by 
the  way  the  Englishman  and  his  man  quickly  glanced  up  at 
him,  that  he  had  been  the  subject  of  the  remark. 

Suddenly  Williams  jumped  to  his  feet  with  an  oath. 

"I'm  cleaned  out,"  he  cried. 

"Shall  we  play  alone?"  asked  Brandt  of  Mordaunt. 

"As  you  like,"  replied  the  Englishman,  in  a  tone  which  showed 
he  cared  not  a  whit  whether  he  played  or  not. 

"I've  got  work  to  do.  Let's  have  some  more  drinks,  and  play 
another  time,"  said  Brandt. 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  87 

The  liquor  was  served  and  drank.  Brandt  pocketed  his  pile  of 
Spanish  and  English  gold,  and  rose  to  his  feet.  He  was  a  trifle 
unsteady;  but  not  drunk. 

"Will  you  gentlemen  have  a  glass  with  me?"  Mordaunt  asked 
of  Colonel  Zane's  party. 

"Thank  you,  some  other  time,  with  pleasure.  We  have  our 
drink  now,"  Colonel  Zane  said  courteously. 

Meantime  Brandt  had  been  whispering  in  Case's  ear.  The  little 
man  laughed  at  something  the  riverman  said.  Then  he  shuffled 
from  behind  the  table.  He  was  short,  his  compact  build  gave 
promise  of  unusual  strength  and  agility. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  now?"  asked  Mordaunt,  rising  also. 
He  looked  hard  at  Case. 

"Shiver  my  sides,  cap'n,  if  I  don't  need  another  drink,"  replied 
the  sailor. 

"You  have  had  enough.  Come  upstairs  with  me,"  said  Mor- 
daunt. 

"Easy  with  your  hatch,  cap'n,"  grinned  Case.  "I  want  to  drink 
with  that  ther'  Injun  killer.  I've  had  drinks  with  buccaneers,  and 
bad  men  all  over  the  world,  and  I'm  not  going  to  miss  this 
chance." 

"Come  on;  you  will  get  into  trouble.  You  must  not  annoy  these 
gentlemen,"  said  Mordaunt. 

"Trouble  is  the  name  of  my  ship,  and  she's  a  trim,  fast  craft," 
replied  the  man. 

His  loud  voice  had  put  an  end  to  the  conversation.  Men  began 
to  crowd  in  from  the  bar-room.  Metzar  himself  came  to  see  what 
had  caused  the  excitement. 

The  little  man  threw  up  his  cap,  whooped,  and  addressed  him- 
self to  Jonathan: 


88  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

"Injun-killer,  bad  man  of  the  border,  will  you  drink  with  a  jolly 
old  tar  from  England?" 

Suddenly  a  silence  reigned,  like  that  in  the  depths  of  the  forest. 
To  those  who  knew  the  borderman,  and  few  did  not  know  him, 
the  invitation  was  nothing  less  than  an  insult.  But  it  did  not 
appear  to  them,  as  to  him,  like  a  pre-arranged  plot  to  provoke  a 
fight. 

"Will  you  drink,  redskin-hunter?"  bawled  the  sailor. 

"No,"  said  Jonathan  in  his  quiet  voice. 

"Maybe  you  mean  that  against  old  England?"  demanded  Case 
fiercely. 

The  borderman  eyed  him  steadily,  inscrutable  as  to  feeling  or 
intent,  and  was  silent. 

"Go  out  there  and  I'll  see  the  color  of  your  insides  quicker 
than  I'd  take  a  drink,"  hissed  the  sailor,  with  his  brick-red  face 
distorted  and  hideous  to  look  upon.  He  pointed  with  a  long- 
bladed  knife  that  no  one  had  seen  him  draw,  to  the  green  sward 
beyond  the  porch. 

The  borderman  neither  spoke,  nor  relaxed  a  muscle. 

"Ho!  ho!  my  brave  pirate  of  the  plains!"  cried  Case,  and  he 
leered  with  braggart  sneer  into  the  faces  of  Jonathan  and  hi» 
companions. 

It  so  happened  that  Sheppard  sat  nearest  to  him,  and  got  the 
full  effect  of  the  sailor's  hot,  rum-soaked  breath.  He  arose  with 
a  pale  face. 

"Colonel,  I  can't  stand  this,"  he  said  hastily.  "Let's  get  away 
from  that  drunken  ruffian." 

"Who's  a  drunken  ruffian?"  yelled  Case,  more  angry  than  ever. 
*'Tm  not  drunk;  but  I'm  going  to  be,  and  cut  some  of  you  white- 
livered  border  mates.  Here,  you  old  masthead,  drink  this  to  my 
health,  damn  you!" 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  89 

The  ruffian  had  seized  a  tumbler  of  liquor  from  the  table,  and 
held  it  toward  Sheppard  while  he  brandished  his  long  knife. 

White  as  snow,  Sheppard  backed  against  the  wall;  but  did  not 
take  the  drink. 

The  sailor  had  the  floor;  no  one  save  him  spoke  a  word.  The 
action  had  been  so  rapid  that  there  had  hardly  been  time.  Colo- 
nel Zane  and  Silas  were  as  quiet  and  tense  as  the  borderman. 

"Drink!"  hoarsely  cried  the  sailor,  advancing  his  knife  toward 
Sheppard's  body. 

When  the  sharp  point  all  but  pressed  against  the  old  man,  a 
bright  object  twinkled  through  the  air.  It  struck  Case's  wrist, 
knocked  the  knife  from  his  fingers,  and,  bounding  against  the 
wall,  fell  upon  the  floor.  It  was  a  tomahawk. 

The  borderman  sprang  over  the  table  like  a  huge  catamount, 
and  with  movement  equally  quick,  knocked  Case  with  a  crash 
against  the  wall;  closed  on  him  before  he  could  move  a  hand, 
and  flung  him  like  a  sack  of  meal  over  the  bluff. 

The  tension  relieved,  some  of  the  crowd  laughed,  others  looked 
over  the  embankment  to  see  how  Case  had  fared,  and  others 
remarked  that  for  some  reason  he  had  gotten  off  better  than  they 
expected. 

The  borderman  remained  silent.  He  leaned  against  a  post,  with 
broad  breast  gently  heaving,  but  his  eyes  sparkled  as  they 
watched  Brandt,  Williams,  Mordaunt  and  Metzar.  The  English- 
man alone  spoke. 

"Handily  done,"  he  said,  cool  and  suave.  "Sir,  yours  is  an  iron 
hand.  I  apologize  for  this  unpleasant  affair.  My  man  is  quarrel- 
some when  under  the  influence  of  liquor." 

"Metzar,  a  word  with  you,"  cried  Colonel  Zane  curtly. 

"Come  inside,  kunnel,"  said  the  innkeeper,  plainly  ill  at  ease. 

"No;  listen  here.  I'll  speak  to  the  point.  You've  got  to  stop 


pO  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

running  this  kind  of  a  place.  No  words,  now,  you've  got  to  stop. 
Understand?  You  know  as  well  as  I,  perhaps  better,  the  char- 
acter of  your  so-called  inn.  You'll  get  but  one  more  chance." 

"Wai,  kunnel,  this  is  a  free  country,"  growled  Metzar.  "I  can't 
help  these  fellars  comin'  here  lookin'  fer  blood.  I  runs  an  honest 
place.  The  men  want  to  drink  an'  gamble.  What's  law  hereF 
What  can  you  do?" 

"You  know  me,  Metzar,"  Colonel  Zane  said  grimly.  "I  don't 
waste  words.  'To  hell  with  law!'  so  you  say.  I  can  say  that,  too. 
Remember,  the  next  drunken  boy  I  see,  or  shady  deal,  or  gam- 
bling spree,  out  you  go  for  good." 

Metzar  lowered  his  shaggy  head  and  left  the  porch.  Brandt  and 
his  friends,  with  serious  faces,  withdrew  into  the  bar-room. 

The  borderman  walked  around  the  corner  of  the  inn,  and  up 
the  lane.  The  colonel,  with  Silas  and  Sheppard,  followed  in  more 
leisurely  fashion.  At  a  shout  from  some  one  they  turned  to  see 
a  dusty,  bloody  figure,  with  ragged  clothes,  stagger  up  from  the 
bluff. 

"There's  that  blamed  sailor  now,"  said  Sheppard.  "He's  a 
tough  nut.  My!  What  a  knock  on  the  head  Jonathan  gave  him. 
Strikes  me,  too,  that  tomahawk  came  almost  at  the  right  time 
to  save  me  a  whole  skin." 

"I  was  furious,  but  not  at  all  alarmed,"  rejoined  Colonel  Zane. 

"I  wondered  what  made  you  so  quiet." 

"I  was  waiting.  Jonathan  never  acts  until  the  right  moment,, 
and  then — well,  you  saw  him.  The  little  villain  deserved  killing. 
I  could  have  shot  him  with  pleasure.  Do  you  know,  Sheppard, 
Jonathan's  aversion  to  shedding  blood  is  a  singular  thing.  He'd 
never  kill  the  worst  kind  of  a  white  man  until  driven  to  it." 

"That's  commendable.  How  about  Wetzelr" 

"Well,  Lew  is  different,"  replied  Colonel  Zane  with  a  shudder. 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  pi 

"If  I  told  him  to  take  an  ax  and  clean  out  Metzar's  place — God! 
what  a  wreck  he'd  make  of  it.  Maybe  I'll  have  to  tell  him,  and 
if  I  do,  you'll  see  something  you  can  never  forget." 


CHAPTER  IX 


ON  SUNDAY  morning  under  the  bright,  warm  sun,  the  little  ham- 
let of  Fort  Henry  lay  peacefully  quiet,  as  if  no  storms  had  ever 
rolled  and  thundered  overhead,  no  roistering  ever  disturbed  its 
stillness,  and  no  Indian's  yell  ever  horribly  broke  the  quiet. 

"  Tis  a  fine  morning,"  said  Colonel  Zane,  joining  his  sister  on 
the  porch.  "Well,  how  nice  you  look!  All  in  white  for  the  first 
time  since — well,  you  do  look  charming.  You're  going  to  church, 
of  course." 

"Yes,  I  invited  Helen  and  her  cousin  to  go.  I've  persuaded  her 
to  teach  my  Sunday-school  class,  and  I'll  take  another  of  older 
children,"  replied  Betty. 

"That's  well.  The  youngsters  don't  have  much  chance  to  learn 
out  here.  But  we've  made  one  great  stride.  A  church  and  a 
preacher  means  very  much  to  young  people.  Next  shall  come  the 
village  school." 

"Helen  and  I  might  teach  our  classes  an  hour  or  two  every 
afternoon." 

"It  would  be  a  grand  thing  if  you  did!  Fancy  these  tots  grow- 
ing up  unable  to  read  or  write.  I  hate  to  think  of  it;  but  the  Lord 
knows  I've  done  my  best.  I've  had  my  troubles  in  keeping  them 
alive." 

"Helen  suggested  the  day  school.  She  takes  the  greatest  inter- 


92  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

est  in  everything  and  everybody.  Her  energy  is  remarkable.  She 
simply  must  move,  must  do  something.  She  overflows  with  kind- 
ness and  sympathy.  Yesterday  she  cried  with  happiness  when 
Mabel  told  her  Alex  was  eager  to  be  married  very  soon.  I  tell 
you,  Eb,  Helen  is  a  fine  character." 

"Yes,  good  as  she  is  pretty,  which  is  saying  some,"  mused  the 
colonel.  "I  wonder  who'll  be  the  lucky  fellow  to  win  her." 

"It's  hard  to  say.  Not  that  Englishman,  surely.  She  hates  him. 
Jonathan  might.  You  should  see  her  eyes  when  he  is  mentioned." 

"Say,  Betts,  you  don't  mean  it?"  eagerly  asked  her  brother. 

"Yes,  I  do,"  returned  Betty,  nodding  her  head  positively.  "I'm 
not  easily  deceived  about  those  things.  Helen's  completely  fas- 
cinated with  Jack.  She  might  be  only  a  sixteen-year-old  girl  for 
the  way  she  betrays  herself  to  me." 

"Betty,  I  have  a  beautiful  plan." 

"No  doubt;  you're  full  of  them." 

"We  can  do  it,  Betty,  we  can,  you  and  I,"  he  said,  as  he 
squeezed  her  arm. 

"My  dear  old  matchmaking  brother,"  returned  Betty,  laughing, 
"it  takes  two  to  make  a  bargain.  Jack  must  be  considered." 

"Bosh!"  exclaimed  the  colonel,  snapping  his  fingers.  "You 
needn't  tell  me  any  young  man— any  man,  could  resist  that 
glorious  girl." 

"Perhaps  not;  I  couldn't  if  I  were  a  man.  But  Jack's  not  like 
other  people.  He'd  never  realize  that  she  cared  for  him.  Besides, 
he's  a  borderman." 

"I  know,  and  that's  the  only  serious  obstacle.  But  he  could 
scout  around  the  fort,  even  if  he  was  married.  These  long,  lonely, 
terrible  journeys  taken  by  him  and  Wetzel  are  mostly  unneces- 
sary. A  sweet  wife  could  soon  make  him  see  that.  The  border 
will  be  civilized  in  a  few  years,  and  because  of  that  he'd  better 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  93 

give  over  hunting  for  Indians.  I'd  like  to  see  him  married  and 
settled  down,  like  all  the  rest  of  us,  even  Isaac.  You  know  Jack's 
the  last  of  the  Zanes,  that  is,  the  old  Zanes.  The  difficulty  arising 
from  his  extreme  modesty  and  bashfulness  can  easily  be  over- 
come." 

"How,  most  wonderful  brother?" 

"Easy  as  pie.  Tell  Jack  that  Helen  is  dying  of  love  for  him,  and 
tell  her  that  Jack  loves " 

"But,  dear  Eb,  that  latter  part  is  not  true,"  interposed  Betty. 

"True,  of  course  it's  true,  or  would  be  in  any  man  who  wasn't 
as  blind  as  a  bat.  We'll  tell  her  Jack  cares  for  her;  but  he  is  a 
borderman  with  stern  ideas  of  duty,  and  so  slow  and  backward 
he'd  never  tell  his  love  even  if  he  had  overcome  his  tricks  of 
ranging.  That  would  settle  it  with  any  girl  worth  her  salt,  and 
this  one  will  fetch  Jack  in  ten  days,  or  less." 

"Eb,  you're  a  devil,"  said  Betty  gaily,  and  then  she  added  in  a 
more  sober  vein,  "I  understand,  Eb.  Your  idea  is  prompted  by 
love  of  Jack,  and  it's  all  right.  I  never  see  him  go  out  of  the 
clearing  but  I  think  it  may  be  for  the  last  time,  even  as  on  that 
day  so  long  ago  when  brother  Andrew  waved  his  cap  to  us,  and 
never  came  back.  Jack  is  the  best  man  in  the  world,  and  I,  too, 
want  to  see  him  happy,  with  a  wife,  and  babies,  and  a  settled 
occupation  in  life.  I  think  we  might  weave  a  pretty  little  romance. 
Shall  we  try?" 

"Try?  We'll  do  it!  Now,  Betts,  you  explain  it  to  both.  You 
can  do  it  smoother  than  I,  and  telling  them  is  really  the  finest 
point  of  our  little  plot.  I'll  help  the  good  work  along  afterwards. 
He'll  be  out  presently.  Nail  him  at  once." 

Jonathan,  all  unconscious  of  the  deep-laid  scheme  to  make  him 
happy,  soon  came  out  on  the  porch,  and  stretched  his  long  arms 
as  he  breathed  freely  of  the  morning  air. 


94  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

"Hello,  Jack,  where  are  you  bound?"  asked  Betty,  clasping  one 
of  his  powerful,  buckskin-clad  knees  with  her  arm. 

"I  reckon  I'll  go  over  to  the  spring,"  he  replied,  patting  her 
dark,  glossy  head. 

"Do  you  know  I  want  to  tell  you  something,  Jack,  and  it's 
quite  serious,"  she  said,  blushing  a  little  at  her  guilt;  but  resolute 
to  carry  out  her  part  of  the  plot. 

"Well,  dear?"  he  asked  as  she  hesitated. 

"Do  you  like  Helen?" 

"That  is  a  question,"  Jonathan  replied  after  a  moment. 

"Never  mind;  tell  me,"  she  persisted. 

He  made  no  answer. 

"Well,  Jack,  she's — she's  wildly  in  love  with  you." 

The  borderman  stood  very  still  for  several  moments.  Then, 
with  one  step  he  gained  the  lawn,  and  turned  to  confront  her. 

"What's  that  you  say?" 

Betty  trembled  a  little.  He  spoke  so  sharply,  his  eyes  were 
bent  on  her  so  keenly,  and  he  looked  so  strong,  so  forceful  that 
she  was  almost  afraid.  But  remembering  that  she  had  said  only 
what,  to  her  mind,  was  absolutely  true,  she  raised  her  eyes  and 
repeated  the  words: 

"Helen  is  wildly  in  love  with  you." 

"Betty,  you  wouldn't  joke  about  such  a  thing;  you  wouldn't 
lie  to  me,  I  know  you  wouldn't." 

"No,  Jack  dear." 

She  saw  his  powerful  frame  tremble,  even  as  she  had  seen 
more  than  one  man  tremble,  during  the  siege,  under  the  impact 
of  a  bullet. 

Without  speaking,  he  walked  rapidly  down  the  path  toward 
the  spring. 

Colonel  Zane  came  out  of  his  hiding-place  behind  the  porch. 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  95 

and,  with  a  face  positively  electrifying  in  its  glowing  pleasure, 
beamed  upon  his  sister. 

"Gee!  Didn't  he  stalk  off  like  an  Indian  chief!"  he  said, 
chuckling  with  satisfaction.  "By  George!  Belts,  you  must  have 
got  in  a  great  piece  of  work.  I  never  in  my  life  saw  Jack  look 
like  that." 

Colonel  Zane  sat  down  by  Betty's  side  and  laughed  softly  but 
heartily. 

"We'll  fix  him  all  right,  the  lonely  hill-climber!  Why,  he  hasn't 
a  ghost  of  a  chance.  Wait  until  she  sees  him  after  hearing  your 
story!  I  tell  you,  Betty — why — damme!  you're  crying!" 

He  had  turned  to  find  her  head  lowered,  while  she  shaded  her 
face  with  her  hand. 

"Now,  Betty,  just  a  little  innocent  deceit  like  that — what 
harm?"  he  said,  taking  her  hand.  He  was  as  tender  as  a  woman. 

"Oh,  Eb,  it  wasn't  that.  I  didn't  mind  telling  him.  Only  the 
flash  in  his  eyes  reminded  me  of — of  Alfred." 

"Surely  it  did.  Why  not  ?  Almost  everything  brings  up  a  tender 
memory  for  some  one  we've  loved  and  lost.  But  don't  cry, 
Betty." 

She  laughed  a  little,  and  raised  a  face  with  its  dark  cheeks 
flushed  and  tear-stained. 

"I'm  silly,  I  suppose;  but  I  can't  help  it.  I  cry  at  least  once 
every  day." 

"Brace  up.  Here  come  Helen  and  Will.  Don't  let  them  see 
you  grieved.  My!  Helen  in  pure  white,  too!  This  is  a  conspiracy 
to  ruin  the  peace  of  the  masculine  portion  of  Fort  Henry." 

Betty  went  forward  to  meet  her  friends  while  Colonel  Zane 
continued  talking,  but  now  to  himself.  "What  a  fatal  beauty  she 
has!"  His  eyes  swept  over  Helen  with  the  pleasure  of  an  artist. 
The  £jjr  richness  of  her  skin,  the  perfect  lips,  the  wavy,  shiny 


96  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

hair,  the  wondrous  dark-blue,  changing  eyes,  the  tall  figure, 
slender,  but  strong  and  swelling  with  gracious  womanhood, 
made  a  picture  he  delighted  in  and  loved  to  have  near  him.  The 
girl  did  not  possess  for  him  any  of  that  magnetism,  so  commonly 
felt  by  most  of  her  admirers;  but  he  did  feel  how  subtly  full  she 
was  of  something,  which  for  want  of  a  better  term  he  described 
in.  Wetzel's  characteristic  expression,  as  "chain-lightning." 

He  reflected  that  as  he  was  so  much  older,  that  she,  although 
Always  winsome  and  earnest,  showed  nothing  of  the  tormenting, 
bewildering  coquetry  of  her  nature.  Colonel  Zane  prided  himself 
on  his  discernment,  and  he  had  already  observed  that  Helen  had 
different  sides  of  character  for  different  persons.  To  Betty,  Mabel, 
Nell,  and  the  children,  she  was  frank,  girlish,  full  of  fun  and 
always  lovable;  to  her  elders  quiet  and  earnestly  solicitous  to 
please;  to  the  young  men  cold;  but  with  a  penetrating,  mocking 
promise  haunting  that  coldness,  and  sometimes  sweetly  agree- 
able, often  wilful,  and  changeable  as  April  winds.  At  last  the 
colonel  concluded  that  she  needed,  as  did  all  other  spirited  young 
women,  the  taming  influence  of  a  man  whom  she  loved,  a  home 
to  care  for,  and  children  to  soften  and  temper  her  spirit. 

"Well,  young  friends,  I  see  you  count  on  keeping  the  Sabbath," 
he  said  cheerily.  "For  my  part,  Will,  I  don't  see  how  Jim  Douns 
can  preach  this  morning,  before  this  laurel  blossom  and  that 
damask  rose." 

"How  poetical!  Which  is  which?"  asked  Betty. 

"Flatterer!"  laughed  Helen,  shaking  her  finger. 

"And  a  married  man,  too!"  continued  Betty. 

"Well,  being  married  has  not  affected  my  poetical  sentiment, 
nor  impaired  my  eyesight." 

"But  it  has  seriously  inconvenienced  your  old  propensity  of 
making  love  to  the  girls.  Not  that  you  wouldn't  if  you  dared," 
Betty  with  mischief  in  her  eye. 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  97 

"Now,  Will,  what  do  you  think  of  that?  Isn't  it  real  sisterly 
regard?  Come,  we'll  go  and  look  at  my  thoroughbreds,"  said 
Colonel  Zane. 

"Where  is  Jonathan?"  Helen  asked  presently.  "Something 
happened  at  Metzar's  yesterday.  Papa  wouldn't  tell  me,  and  I 
want  to  ask  Jonathan." 

"Jack  is  down  by  the  spring.  He  spends  a  great  deal  of  his 
time  there.  It's  shady  and  cool,  and  the  water  babbles  over  the 
stones." 

"How  much  alone  he  is,"  said  Helen. 

Betty  took  her  former  position  on  the  steps,  but  did  not  raise 
her  eyes  while  she  continued  speaking.  "Yes,  he's  more  alone 
than  ever  lately,  and  quieter,  too.  He  hardly  ever  speaks  now. 
There  must  be  something  on  his  mind  more  serious  than  horse- 
thieves." 

"What?"  Helen  asked  quickly. 

"I'd  better  not  tell — you." 

A  long  moment  passed  before  Helen  spoke. 

"Please  tell  me!" 

"Well,  Helen,  we  think,  Eb  and  I,  that  Jack  is  in  love  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life,  and  with  you,  you  adorable  creature.  But 
Jack's  a  borderman;  he  is  stern  in  his  principles,  thinks  he  is 
wedded  to  his  border  life,  and  he  knows  that  he  has  both  red  and 
white  blood  on  his  hands.  He'd  die  before  he'd  speak  of  his  love, 
because  he  cannot  understand  that  would  do  any  good,  even  if 
you  loved  him,  which  is,  of  course,  preposterous." 

"Loves  me!"  breathed  Helen  softly. 

She  sat  down  rather  beside  Betty,  and  turned  her  face  away. 
She  still  held  the  young  woman's  hand  which  she  squeezed  so 
tightly  as  to  make  its  owner  wince.  Betty  stole  a  look  at  her,  and 
saw  the  rich  red  blood  mantling  her  cheeks,  and  her  full  bosom 
heave. 


98  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

Helen  turned  presently,  with  no  trace  of  emotion  except  a 
singular  brilliance  of  the  eyes.  She  was  so  slow  to  speak  again 
that  Colonel  Zane  and  Will  returned  from  the  corral  before  she 
found  her  voice. 

"Colonel  Zane,  please  tell  me  about  last  night.  When  papa 
came  home  to  supper  he  was  pale  and  very  nervous.  I  knew 
something  had  happened.  But  he  would  not  explain,  which  made 
me  all  the  more  anxious.  Won't  you  please  tell  me?" 

Colonel  Zane  glanced  again  at  her,  and  knew  what  had  hap- 
pened. Despite  her  self-possession  those  tell-tale  eyes  told  her 
secret.  Ever-changing  and  shadowing  with  a  bounding,  rapturous 
light,  they  were  indeed  the  windows  of  her  soul.  All  the  emotion 
of  a  woman's  heart  shone  there,  fear,  beauty,  wondering  appeal, 
trembling  joy,  and  timid  hope. 

"Tell  you?  Indeed  I  will,"  replied  Colonel  Zane,  softened  and 
a  little  remorseful  under  those  wonderful  eyes. 

No  one  liked  to  tell  a  story  better  than  Colonel  Zane.  Briefly 
and  graphically  he  related  the  circumstances  of  the  affair  leading 
to  the  attack  on  Helen's  father,  and,  as  the  tale  progressed,  he 
became  quite  excited,  speaking  with  animated  face  and  forceful 
gestures. 

"Just  as  the  knife-point  touched  your  father,  a  swiftly-flying 
object  knocked  the  weapon  to  the  floor.  It  was  Jonathan's  toma- 
hawk. What  followed  was  so  sudden  I  hardly  saw  it.  Like  light- 
ning, and  flexible  as  steel,  Jonathan  jumped  over  the  table, 
smashed  Case  against  the  wall,  pulled  him  up  and  threw  him 
over  the  bank.  I  tell  you,  Helen,  it  was  a  beautiful  piece  of  action; 
but  not,  of  course,  for  a  woman's  eyes.  Now  that's  all.  Your 
father  was  not  even  hurt." 

"He  saved  papa's  life,"  murmured  Helen,  standing  like  a 
statue. 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  99 

She  wheeled  suddenly  with  that  swift  bird-like  motion  habitual 
to  her,  and  went  quickly  down  the  path  leading  to  the  spring. 

*#**** 

Jonathan  Zane,  solitary  dreamer  of  dreams  as  he  was,  had  never 
been  in  as  strange  and  beautiful  a  reverie  as  that  which  possessed 
him  on  this  Sabbath  morning. 

Deep  into  his  heart  had  sunk  Betty's  words.  The  wonder  of 
it,  the  sweetness,  that  alone  was  all  he  felt.  The  glory  of  this 
girl  had  begun,  days  past,  to  spread  its  glamour  round  him. 
Swept  irresistibly  away  now,  he  soared  aloft  in  a  dream-castle  of 
fancy  with  its  painted  windows  and  golden  walls. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  on  the  border  he  had  entered  the 
little  glade  and  had  no  eye  for  the  crystal  water  flowing  over 
the  pebbles  and  mossy  stones,  or  the  plot  of  grassy  ground  in- 
closed by  tall,  dark  trees  and  shaded  by  a  canopy  of  fresh  green 
and  azure  blue.  Nor  did  he  hear  the  music  of  the  soft  rushing 
water,  the  warbling  birds,  or  the  gentle  sighing  breeze  moving 
the  leaves. 

Gone,  vanished,  lost  to-day  was  that  sweet  companionship  of 
nature.  That  indefinable  and  unutterable  spirit  which  flowed  so 
peacefully  to  him  from  his  beloved  woods;  that  something  more 
than  merely  affecting  his  senses,  which  existed  for  him  in  the 
stony  cliffs,  and  breathed  with  life  through  the  lonely  aisles  of 
the  forest,  had  fled  before  the  fateful  power  of  a  woman's  love 
and  beauty. 

A  long  time  that  seemed  only  a  moment  passed  while  he  leaned 
against  a  stone.  A  light  step  sounded  on  the  path. 

A  vision  in  pure  white  entered  the  glade;  two  little  hands 
pressed  his,  and  two  dark-blue  eyes  of  misty  beauty  shed  their 
light  on  him. 

"Jonathan,  I  am  come  to  thank  you." 


100  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

Sweet  and  tremulous,  the  voice  sounded  far  away. 

"Thank  me?  For  what?" 

"You  saved  papa's  life.  Oh!  how  can  I  thank  you?" 

No  voice  answered  for  him. 

"I  have  nothing  to  give  but  this." 

A  flower-like  face  was  held  up  to  him;  hands  light  as  thistle- 
down touched  his  shoulders;  dark-blue  eyes  glowed  upon  him 
with  all  tenderness. 

"May  I  thank  you — so?" 

Soft  lips  met  his  full  and  lingeringly. 

Then  came  a  rush  as  of  wind,  a  flash  of  white,  and  the  patter 
of  flying  feet.  He  was  alone  in  the  glade. 


CHAPTER  X 


JUNE  passed;  July  opened  with  unusually  warm  weather,  and 
Fort  Henry  had  no  visits  from  Indians  or  horse-thieves,  nor  any 
inconvenience  except  the  hot  sun.  It  was  the  warmest  weather 
for  many  years,  and  seriously  dwarfed  the  settlers'  growing  corn. 
Nearly  all  the  springs  were  dry,  and  a  drouth  menaced  the 
farmers. 

The  weather  gave  Helen  an  excuse  which  she  was  not  slow  to 
adopt.  Her  pale  face  and  languid  air  perplexed  and  worried  her 
father  and  her  friends.  She  explained  to  them  that  the  heat 
affected  her  disagreeably. 

Long  days  had  passed  since  that  Sunday  morning  when  she 
kissed  the  borderman.  What  transports  of  sweet  hope  and  fear 
were  hers  then!  How  shame  had  scorched  her  happiness!  Yet 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  101 

still  she  gloried  in  the  act.  By  that  kiss  had  she  awakened  to  a 
full  consciousness  of  her  love.  With  insidious  stealth  and  ever- 
increasing  power  this  flood  had  increased  to  full  tide,  and,  burst- 
ing its  bonds,  surged  over  her  with  irresistible  strength. 

During  the  first  days  after  the  dawning  of  her  passion,  she 
lived  in  its  sweetness,  hearing  only  melodious  sounds  chiming 
in  her  soul.  The  hours  following  that  Sunday  were  like  long 
dreams.  But  as  all  things  reach  fruition,  so  this  girlish  period 
passed,  leaving  her  a  thoughtful  woman.  She  began  to  gather  up 
the  threads  of  her  life  where  love  had  broken  them,  to  plan 
nobly,  and  to  hope  and  wait. 

Weeks  passed,  however,  and  her  lover  did  not  come.  Betty 
told  her  that  Jonathan  made  flying  trips  at  break  of  day  to  hold 
council  with  Colonel  Zane;  that  he  and  Wetzel  were  on  the 
trail  of  Shawnees  with  stolen  horses,  and  both  bordermen  were 
in  their  dark,  vengeful,  terrible  moods.  In  these  later  days  Helen 
passed  through  many  stages  of  feeling.  After  the  exalting  mood 
of  hot,  young  love,  came  reaction.  She  fell  into  the  depths  of 
despair.  Sorrow  paled  her  face,  thinned  her  cheeks  and  lent 
another  shadow,  a  mournful  one,  to  her  great  eyes.  The  constant 
repression  of  emotion,  the  strain  of  trying  to  seem  cheerful  when 
she  was  miserable,  threatened  even  her  magnificent  health.  She 
answered  the  solicitude  of  her  friends  by  evasion,  and  then  by 
that  innocent  falsehood  in  which  a  sensitive  soul  hides  its  secrets. 
Shame  was  only  natural,  because  since  the  bordermrm  came  not, 
nor  sent  her  a  word,  pride  whispered  that  she  had  wooed  him, 
forgetting  modesty. 

Pride,  anger,  shame,  despair,  however,  finally  fled  before  affec- 
tion. She  loved  this  wild  borderman,  and  knew  he  loved  her  in 
return  although  he  might  not  understand  it  himself.  His  sim- 
plicity, his  lack  of  experience  with  women,  his  hazardous  life 


102  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

and  stern  duty  regarding  it,  pleaded  for  him  and  for  her  love. 
For  the  lack  of  a  little  understanding  she  would  never  live 
unhappy  and  alone  while  she  was  loved.  Better  give  a  thousand 
times  more  than  she  had  sacrificed.  He  would  return  to  the 
village  some  dav,  when  the  Indians  and  the  thieves  were  run 
down,  and  would  be  his  own  calm,  gentle  self.  Then  she  would 
win  him,  break  down  his  allegiance  to  this  fearful  border  life, 
and  make  him  happy  in  her  love. 

While  Helen  was  going  through  one  of  the  fires  of  life  to 
come  out  sweeter  and  purer,  if  a  little  pensive  and  sad,  time, 
which  waits  not  for  love,  nor  life,  nor  death,  was  hastening 
onward,  and  soon  the  golden  fields  of  grain  were  stored.  Septem- 
ber came  with  its  fruitful  promise  fulfilled. 

Helen  entered  once  more  into  the  quiet,  social  life  of  the  little 
settlement,  taught  her  class  on  Sundays,  did  all  her  own  work, 
and  even  found  time  to  bring  a  ray  of  sunshine  to  more  than 
one  sick  child's  bed.  Yet  she  did  not  forget  her  compact  with 
Jonathan,  and  bent  all  her  intelligence  to  find  some  clew  that 
might  aid  in  the  capture  of  the  horse-thief.  She  was  still  groping 
in  the  darkness.  She  could  not,  however,  banish  the  belief  that 
the  traitor  was  Brandt.  She  blamed  herself  for  this,  because  of 
having  no  good  reasons  for  suspicion;  but  the  conviction  was 
there,  fixed  by  intuition.  Because  a  man's  eyes  were  steely  gray, 
sharp  like  those  of  a  cat's,  and  capable  of  the  same  contraction 
and  enlargement,  there  was  no  reason  to  believe  their  owner  was 
a  criminal.  But  that,  Helen  acknowledged  with  a  smile,  was  the 
only  argument  she  had.  To  be  sure  Brandt  had  looked  capable 
of  anything,  the  night  Jonathan  knocked  him  down;  she  knew  he 
had  incited  Case  to  begin  the  trouble  at  Metzar's,  and  had 
seemed  worried  since  that  time.  He  had  not  left  the  settlement 
on  short  journeys,  as  had  been  his  custom  before  the  affair  in  the 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  103 

bar-room.  And  not  a  horse  had  disappeared  from  Fort  Henry 
since  that  time. 

Brandt  had  not  discontinued  his  attentions  to  her;  if  they  were 
less  ardent  it  was  because  she  had  given  him  absolutely  to  under- 
stand that  she  could  be  his  friend  only.  And  she  would  not  have 
allowed  even  so  much  except  for  Jonathan's  plan.  She  fancied 
it  was  possible  to  see  behind  Brandt's  courtesy,  the  real  subtle, 
threatening  man.  Stripped  of  his  kindliness,  an  assumed  virtue, 
the  iron  man  stood  revealed,  cold,  calculating,  cruel. 

Mordaunt  she  never  saw  but  once  and  then,  shocking  and 
pitiful,  he  lay  dead  drunk  in  the  grass  by  the  side  of  the  road, 
his  pale,  weary,  handsome  face  exposed  to  the  pitiless  rays  of  the 
sun.  She  ran  home  weeping  over  this  wreck  of  what  had  once 
been  so  fine  a  gentleman.  Ah!  the  curse  of  rum!  He  had  learned 
his  soft  speech  and  courtly  bearing  in  the  refinement  of  a  home 
where  a  proud  mother  adored,  and  gentle  sisters  loved  him.  And 
now,  far  from  the  kindred  he  had  disgraced,  he  lay  in  the  road 
like  a  log.  How  it  hurt  her!  She  almost  wished  she  could  have 
loved  him,  if  love  might  have  redeemed.  She  was  more  kind  to 
her  other  admirers,  more  tolerant  of  Brandt,  and  could  forgive 
the  Englishman,  because  the  pangs  she  had  suffered  through  love 
had  softened  her  spirit. 

During  this  long  period  the  growing  friendship  of  her  cousin 
for  Betty  had  been  a  source  of  infinite  pleasure  to  Helen.  She 
hoped  and  believed  a  romance  would  develop  between  the  young 
widow  and  Will,  and  did  all  in  her  power,  slyly  abetted  by  the 
matchmaking  colonel,  to  bring  the  two  together. 

One  afternoon  when  the  sky  was  clear  with  that  intense  blue 
peculiar  to  bright  days  in  early  autumn,  Helen  started  out 
toward  Betty's,  intending  to  remind  that  young  lady  she  had 
promised  to  hunt  for  clematis  and  other  fall  flowers. 


IO4  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

About  half-way  to  Betty's  home  she  met  Brandt.  He  came 
swinging  round  a  corner  with  his  quick,  firm  step.  She  had  not 
seen  him  for  several  days,  and  somehow  he  seemed  different.  A 
brightness,  a  flash,  as  of  daring  expectation,  was  in  his  face.  The 
poise,  too,  of  the  man  had  changed. 

"Well,  I  am  fortunate.  I  was  just  going  to  your  home,"  he  said 
cheerily.  "Won't  you  come  for  a  walk  with  me?" 

"You  may  walk  with  me  to  Betty's,"  Helen  answered. 

"No,  not  that.  Come  up  the  hillside.  We'll  get  some  goldenrod. 
I'd  like  to  have  a  chat  with  you.  I  may  go  away — I  mean  I'm 
thinking  of  making  a  short  trip,"  he  added  hurriedly. 

"Please  come." 

"I  promised  to  go  to  Betty's." 

"You  won't  come?"  His  voice  trembled  with  mingled  dis- 
appointment and  resentment. 

"No,"  Helen  replied  in  slight  surprise. 

"You  have  gone  with  the  other  fellows.  Why  not  with  me?" 
He  was  white  now,  and  evidently  laboring  under  powerful  feek 
ings  that  must  have  had  their  origin  in  some  thought  or  plan 
which  hinged  on  the  acceptance  of  his  invitation. 

"Because  I  choose  not  to,"  Helen  replied  coldly,  meeting  his 
glance  fully. 

A  dark  red  flush  swelled  Brandt's  face  and  neck;  his  gray  eyes 
gleamed  balefully  with  wolfish  glare;  his  teeth  were  clenched. 
He  breathed  hard  and  trembled  with  anger.  Then,  by  a  power- 
ful effort,  he  conquered  himself;  the  villainous  expression  left 
his  face;  the  storm  of  rage  subsided.  Great  incentive  there  must 
have  been  for  him  thus  to  repress  his  emotions  so  quickly.  He 
looked  long  at  her  with  sinister,  intent  regard;  then,  with  the 
laugh  of  a  desperado,  a  laugh  which  might  have  indicated  con- 
tempt for  the  failure  of  his  suit,  and  which  was  fraught  with  a 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  105 

world  of  meaning,  of  menace,  he  left  her  without  so  much  as  a 
salute. 

Helen  pondered  over  this  sudden  change,  and  felt  relieved 
because  she  need  make  no  further  pretense  of  friendship.  He  had 
shown  himself  to  be  what  she  had  instinctively  believed.  She 
hurried  on  toward  Betty's,  hoping  to  find  Colonel  Zane  at  home,, 
and  with  Jonathan,  for  Brandt's  hint  of  leaving  Fort  Henry,  an(^ 
his  evident  chagrin  at  such  a  slip  of  speech,  had  made  her  sus- 
picious. She  was  informed  by  Mrs.  Zane  that  the  colonel  had 
gone  to  a  log-raising;  Jonathan  had  not  been  in  for  several  days, 
and  Betty  went  away  with  Will. 

"Where  did  they  go?"  asked  Helen. 

"I'm  not  sure;  I  think  down  to  the  spring." 

Helen  followed  the  familiar  path  through  the  grove  of  oaks 
into  the  glade.  It  was  quite  deserted.  Sitting  on  the  stone  against 
which  Jonathan  had  leaned  the  day  she  kissed  him,  she  gave 
way  to  tender  reflection.  Suddenly  she  was  disturbed  by  the 
sound  of  rapid  footsteps,  and  looking  up,  saw  the  hulking  form 
of  Metzar,  the  innkeeper,  coming  down  the  path.  He  carried  a 
bucket,  and  meant  evidently  to  get  water.  Helen  did  not  desire 
to  be  seen,  and,  thinking  he  would  stay  only  a  moment,  slipped 
into  a  thicket  of  willows  behind  the  stone.  She  could  see  plainly 
through  the  foliage.  Metzar  came  into  the  glade,  peered  around 
in  the  manner  of  a  man  expecting  to  see  some  one,  and  then, 
filling  his  bucket  at  the  spring,  sat  down  on  the  stone. 

Not  a  minute  elapsed  before  soft,  rapid  footsteps  sounded  in 
the  distance.  The  bushes  parted,  disclosing  the  white,  set  face 
and  gray  eyes  of  Roger  Brandt.  With  a  light  spring  he  cleared 
the  brook  and  approached  Metzar. 

Before  speaking  he  glanced  around  the  glade  with  the  fugitive, 
distrustful  glance  of  a  man  who  suspects  even  the  trees.  Then, 


106  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

satisfied  by  the  scrutiny  he  opened  his  hunting  frock,  taking 
forth  a  long  object  which  he  thrust  toward  Metzar. 

It  was  an  Indian  arrow. 

Metzar's  dull  gaze  traveled  from  this  to  the  ominous  face  of 
Brandt. 

"See  there,  you!  Look  at  this  arrow!  Shot  by  the  best  Indian 
on  the  border  into  the  window  of  my  room.  I  hadn't  been  there 
a  minute  when  it  came  from  the  island.  God!  but  it  was  a  great 
shot!" 

"Hell!"  gasped  Metzar,  his  dull  face  quickening  with  some 
awful  thought. 

"I  guess  it  is  hell,"  replied  Brandt,  his  face  growing  whiter 
and  wilder. 

"Our  game's  up?"  questioned  Metzar  with  haggard  cheek. 

"Up?  Man!  We  haven't  a  day,  maybe  less,  to  shake  Fort 
Henry." 

"What  does  it  mean?"  asked  Metzar.  He  was  the  calmer  of 
the  two. 

"It's  a  signal.  The  Shawnees,  who  were  in  hiding  with  the 
horses  over  by  Blueberry  swamp,  have  been  flushed  by  those 
bordermen.  Some  of  them  have  escaped;  at  least  one,  for  no  one 
but  Ashbow  could  shoot  that  arrow  across  the  river." 

"Suppose  he  hadn't  come?"  whispered  Metzar  hoarsely. 

Brandt  answered  him  with  a  dark,  shuddering  gaze. 

A  twig  snapped  in  the  thicket.  Like  foxes  at  the  click  of  a 
trap,  these  men  whirled  with  fearsome  glances. 

"Ugh!"  came  a  low,  guttural  voice  from  the  bushes,  and  an 
Indian  of  magnificent  proportions  and  somber,  swarthy  features, 
entered  the  glade. 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  107 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  savage  had  just  emerged  from  the  river,  for  his  graceful, 
copper-colored  body  and  scanty  clothing  were  dripping  with 
water.  He  carried  a  long  bow  and  a  quiver  of  arrows. 

Brandt  uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise,  and  Metzar  a  curse, 
as  the  lithe  Indian  leaped  the  brook.  He  was  not  young.  His 
swarthy  face  was  lined,  seamed,  and  terrible  with  a  dark  im- 
passiveness. 

"Paleface-brother-get-arrow,"  he  said  in  halting  English,  as  his 
eyes  flashed  upon  Brandt.  "Chief-want-make-sure." 

The  white  man  leaned  forward,  grasped  the  Indian's  arm,  and 
addressed  him  in  an  Indian  language.  This  questioning  was 
evidently  in  regard  to  his  signal,  the  whereabouts  of  others  of 
the  party,  and  why  he  took  such  fearful  risks  almost  in  the  vil- 
lage. The  Indian  answered  with  one  English  word. 

"Death  wind!" 

Brandt  drew  back  with  drawn,  white  face,  while  a  whistling 
breath  escaped  him. 

"I  knew  it,  Metz.  Wetzel!"  he  exclaimed  in  a  husky  voice. 

The  blood  slowly  receded  from  Metzar's  evil,  murky  face, 
leaving  it  haggard. 

"Deathwind-on-Chief's-trail-up-Eagle  Rock,"  continued  the  In- 
dian. "Deathwind-fooled-not-for-long.  Chief -wait-paleface-broth- 
ers at  Two  Islands." 

The  Indian  stepped  into  the  brook,  parted  the  willows,  and 
was  gone  as  he  had  come,  silently. 

"We  know  what  to  expect,"  said  Brandt  in  calmer  tone  as  the 


I08  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

daring  cast  of  countenance  returned  to  him.  "There's  an  Indian 
for  you!  He  got  away,  doubled  like  an  old  fox  on  his  trail,  and 
ran  in  here  to  give  us  a  chance  at  escape.  Now  you  know  why 
Bing  Legget  can't  be  caught." 

"Let's  dig  at  once,"  replied  Metzar,  with  no  show  of  returning 
courage  such  as  characterized  his  companion. 

Brandt  walked  to  and  fro  with  bent  brows,  like  one  in  deep 
thought.  Suddenly  he  turned  upon  Metzar  eyes  which  were 
brightly  hard,  and  reckless  with  resolve. 

"By  Heaven!  I'll  do  it!  Listen.  Wetzel  has  gone  to  the  top  of 
Eagle  Mountain,  where  he  and  Zane  have  a  rendezvous.  Even 
he  won't  suspect  the  cunning  of  this  Indian;  anyway  it'll  be  after 
daylight  to-morrow  before  he  strikes  the  trail.  I've  got  twenty- 
four  hours,  and  more,  to  get  this  girl,  and  I'll  do  it!" 

"Bad  move  to  have  weight  like  her  on  a  march,"  said  Metzar. 

"Bah!  The  thing's  easy.  As  for  you,  go  on,  push  ahead  after 
we're  started.  All  I  ask  is  that  you  stay  by  me  until  the  time  to 
cut  loose." 

"I  ain't  agoin'  to  crawfish  now,"  growled  Metzar.  "Strikes  me, 
too,  I'm  losin'  more'n  you." 

"You  won't  be  a  loser  if  you  can  get  back  to  Detroit  with  your 
scalp.  I'll  pay  you  in  horses  and  gold.  Once  we  reach  Legget's 
place  we're  safe." 

"What's  yer  plan  about  gittin'  the  gal?"  asked  Metzar. 

Brandt  leaned  forward  and  spoke  eagerly,  but  in  a  low  tone. 

"Git  away  on  hoss-back?"  questioned  Metzar,  visibly  brighten- 
ing. "Wai,  that's  some  sense.  Kin  ye  trust  ther  other  party?" 

"I'm  sure  I  can,"  rejoined  Brandt. 

"It'll  be  a  good  job,  a  good  job  an'  all  done  in  daylight,  too. 
Bing  Legget  couldn't  plan  better,"  Metzar  said,  rubbing  his 
hands, 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  lOp 

"We've  fooled  these  Zanes  and  their  fruit-raising  farmers  for 
a  year,  and  our  time  is  about  up,"  Brandt  muttered.  "One  more 
job  and  we've  done.  Once  with  Legget  we're  safe,  and  then  we'll 
work  slowly  back  towards  Detroit.  Let's  get  out  of  here  now,  for 
some  one  may  come  at  any  moment." 

The  plotters  separated,  Brandt  going  through  the  grove,  and 
Metzar  down  the  path  by  which  he  had  come. 

###### 

Helen,  trembling  with  horror  of  what  she  had  heard,  raised 
herself  cautiously  from  the  willows  where  she  had  lain,  and 
watched  the  innkeeper's  retreating  figure.  When  it  had  disap- 
peared she  gave  a  little  gasp  of  relief.  Free  now  to  run  home, 
there  to  plan  what  course  must  be  pursued,  she  conquered  her 
fear  and  weakness,  and  hurried  from  the  glade.  Luckily,  so  far 
as  she  was  able  to  tell,  no  one  saw  her  return.  She  resolved  that 
she  would  be  cool,  deliberate,  clever,  worthy  of  the  borderman's 
confidence. 

First  she  tried  to  determine  the  purport  of  this  interview 
between  Brandt  and  Metzar.  She  recalled  to  mind  all  that  was 
said,  and  supplied  what  she  thought  had  been  suggested.  Brandt 
and  Metzar  were  horse-thieves,  aids  of  Bing  Legget.  They  had 
repaired  to  the  glade  to  plan.  The  Indian  had  been  a  surprise. 
Wetzel  had  routed  the  Shawnees,  and  was  now  on  the  trail  of 
this  chieftain.  The  Indian  warned  them  to  leave  Fort  Henry  and 
to  meet  him  at  a  place  called  Two  Islands.  Brandt's  plan,  pre- 
sumably somewhat  changed  by  the  advent  of  the  red-man,  was 
to  steal  horses,  abduct  a  girl  in  broad  daylight,  and  before  to 
morrow's  sunset  escape  to  join  the  ruffian  Legget. 

"I  am  the  girl,"  murmured  Helen  shudderingly,  as  she  re- 
lapsed momentarily  into  girlish  fears.  But  at  once  she  rose  above 
selfish  feelings. 


110  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

Secondly,  while  it  was  easy  to  determine  what  the  outlaws 
meant,  the  wisest  course  was  difficult  to  conceive.  She  had  prom- 
ised the  borderman  to  help  him,  and  not  speak  of  anything  she 
learned  to  any  but  himself.  She  could  not  be  true  to  him  if  she 
asked  advice.  The  point  was  clear;  either  she  must  remain  in  the 
settlement  hoping  for  Jonathan's  return  in  time  to  frustrate 
Brandt's  villainous  scheme,  or  find  the  borderman.  Suddenly  she 
remembered  Metzar's  allusion  to  a  second  person  whom  Brandt 
felt  certain  he  could  trust.  This  meant  another  traitor  in  Fort 
Henry,  another  horse-thief,  another  desperado  willing  to  make 
off  with  helpless  women. 

Helen's  spirit  rose  in  arms.  She  had  their  secret,  and  could 
ruin  diem.  She  would  find  the  borderman. 

Wetzel  was  on  the  trail  at  Eagle  Rock.  What  for?  Trailing  an 
Indian  who  was  then  five  miles  east  of  that  rock?  Not  Wetzel! 
He  was  on  that  track  to  meet  Jonathan.  Otherwise,  with  the  red- 
skins near  the  river,  he  would  have  been  closer  to  them.  He 
would  meet  Jonathan  there  at  sunset  to-day,  Helen  decided. 

She  paced  the  room,  trying  to  still  her  throbbing  heart  and 
trembling  hands. 

"I  must  be  calm,"  she  said  sternly.  "Time  is  precious.  I  have 
not  a  moment  to  lose.  I  will  find  him.  I've  watched  that  moun- 
tain many  a  time,  and  can  find  the  trail  and  the  rock.  I  am  in 
more  danger  here,  than  out  there  in  the  forest.  With  Wetzel 
and  Jonathan  on  the  mountain  side,  the  Indians  have  fled  it. 
But  what  about  the  savage  who  warned  Brandt?  Let  me  think. 
Yes,  he'll  avoid  the  river;  he'll  go  round  south  of  the  settlement, 
and,  therefore,  can't  see  me  cross.  How  fortunate  that  I  have 
paddled  a  canoe  many  times  across  the  river.  How  glad  that  I 
made  Colonel  Zane  describe  the  course  up  the  mountains!" 

Her  resolution  fixed,  Helen  changed  her  skirt  for  one  of  buck- 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  III 

skin,  putting  on  leggings  and  moccasins  of  the  same  serviceable 
material.  She  filled  the  pockets  of  a  short,  rain-proof  jacket  with 
biscuits,  and,  thus  equipped,  sallied  forth  with  a  spirit  and 
exultation  she  could  not  subdue.  Only  one  thing  she  feared, 
which  was  that  Brandt  or  Metzar  might  see  her  cross  the  river. 
She  launched  her  canoe  and  paddled  down  stream,  under  cover 
of  the  bluff,  to  a  point  opposite  the  end  of  the  island,  then 
straight  across,  keeping  the  island  between  her  and  the  settle- 
ment. Gaining  the  other  shore,  Helen  pulled  the  canoe  into  the 
willows,  and  mounted  the  bank.  A  thicket  of  willow  and  alder 
made  progress  up  the  steep  incline  difficult,  but  once  out  of  it 
she  faced  a  long  stretch  of  grassy  meadowland.  A  mile  beyond 
began  the  green,  billowy  rise  of  that  mountain  which  she  in- 
tended to  climb. 

Helen's  whole  soul  was  thrown  into  the  adventure.  She  felt 
her  strong  young  limbs  in  accord  with  her  heart. 

"Now,  Mr.  Brandt,  horse-thief  and  girl-snatcher,  we'll  see," 
she  said  with  scornful  lips.  "If  I  can't  beat  you  now  I'm  not  fit 
to  be  Betty  Zane's  friend;  and  am  unworthy  of  a  borderman's 
trust." 

She  traversed  the  whole  length  of  meadowland  close  under 
the  shadow  of  the  fringed  bank,  and  gained  the  forest.  Here 
she  hesitated.  All  was  so  wild  and  still.  No  definite  course 
through  the  woods  seemed  to  invite,  and  yet  all  was  open.  Trees, 
trees,  dark,  immovable  trees  everywhere.  The  violent  trembling 
of  poplar  and  aspen  leaves,  when  all  others  were  so  calm,  struck 
her  strangely,  and  the  fearful  stillness  awed  her.  Drawing  a  deep 
breath  she  started  forward  up  the  gently  rising  ground. 

As  she  advanced  the  open  forest  became  darker,  and  of  wilder 
aspect.  The  trees  were  larger  and  closer  together.  Still  she  made 
fair  progress  without  deviating  from  the  course  she  had  deter- 


112  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

mined  upon.  Before  her  rose  a  ridge,  with  a  ravine  on  either 
side,  reaching  nearly  to  the  summit  of  the  mountain.  Here  the 
underbrush  was  scanty,  the  fallen  trees  had  slipped  down  the 
side,  and  the  rocks  were  not  so  numerous,  all  of  which  gave  her 
reason  to  be  proud,  so  far,  of  her  judgment. 

Helen,  pressing  onward  and  upward,  forgot  time  and  danger, 
while  she  reveled  in  the  wonder  of  the  forestland.  Birds  and 
squirrels  fled  before  her;  whistling  and  wheezing  of  alarm,  or 
heavy  crashings  in  the  bushes,  told  of  frightened  wild  beasts. 
A  dull,  faint  roar,  like  a  distant  wind,  suggested  tumbling 
waters.  A  single  birch  tree,  gleaming  white  among  the  black 
trees,  enlivened  the  gloomy  forest.  Patches  of  sunlight  bright- 
ened the  shade.  Giant  ferns,  just  tinging  with  autumn  colors, 
waved  tips  of  sculptured  perfection.  Most  wonderful  of  all  were 
the  colored  leaves,  as  they  floated  downward  with  a  sad,  gentle 
rustle. 

Helen  was  brought  to  a  realization  of  her  hazardous  under- 
taking by  a  sudden  roar  of  water,  and  the  abrupt  termination 
of  the  ridge  in  a  deep  gorge.  Grasping  a  tree  she  leaned  over  to 
look  down.  It  was  fully  an  hundred  feet  deep,  with  impassable 
walls,  green-stained  and  damp,  at  the  bottom  of  which  a  brawl- 
ing, brown  brook  rushed  on  its  way.  Fully  twenty  feet  wide,  it 
presented  an  insurmountable  barrier  to  further  progress  in  that 
direction. 

But  Helen  looked  upon  it  merely  as  a  difficulty  to  be  over- 
come. She  studied  the  situation,  and  decided  to  go  to  the  left 
because  higher  ground  was  to  be  seen  that  way.  Abandoning 
the  ridge,  she  pressed  on,  keeping  as  close  to  the  gorge  as  she 
dared,  and  came  presently  to  a  fallen  tree  lying  across  the  dark 
cleft.  Without  a  second's  hesitation,  for  she  knew  such  would 
be  fatal,  she  stepped  upon  the  tree  and  started  across,  looking 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  113 

at  nothing  but  the  log  under  her  feet,  while  she  tried  to  imagine 
herself  walking  across  the  water-gate,  at  home  in  Virginia. 

She  accomplished  the  venture  without  a  misstep.  When  safely 
on  the  ground  once  more  she  felt  her  knees  tremble  and  a  queer, 
light  feeling  came  into  her  head.  She  laughed,  however,  as  she 
rested  a  moment.  It  would  take  more  than  a  gorge  to  discourage 
her,  she  resolved  with  set  lips,  as  once  again  she  made  her  way 
along  the  rising  ground. 

Perilous,  if  not  desperate,  work  was  ahead  of  her.  Broken, 
rocky  ground,  matted  thicket,  and  seemingly  impenetrable 
forest,  rose  darkly  in  advance.  But  she  was  not  even  tired,  and 
climbed,  crawled,  twisted  and  turned  on  her  way  upward.  She 
surmounted  a  rocky  ledge,  to  face  a  higher  ridge  covered  with 
splintered,  uneven  stones,  and  the  fallen  trees  of  many  storms. 
Once  she  slipped  and  fell,  spraining  her  wrist.  At  length  this 
uphill  labor  began  to  weary  her.  To  breathe  caused  a  pain  in 
her  side  and  she  was  compelled  to  rest. 

Already  the  gray  light  of  coming  night  shrouded  the  forest. 
She  was  surprised  at  seeing  the  trees  become  indistinct;  be- 
cause the  shadows  hovered  over  the  thickets,  and  noted  that 
the  dark,  dim  outline  of  the  ridges  was  fading  into  obscurity. 

She  struggled  on  up  the  uneven  slope  with  a  tightening  at  her 
heart  which  was  not  all  exhaustion.  For  the  first  time  she 
doubted  herself,  but  it  was  too  late.  She  could  not  turn  back. 
Suddenly  she  felt  that  she  was  on  a  smoother,  easier  course. 
Not  to  strike  a  stone  or  break  a  twig  seemed  unusual.  It  might 
be  a  path  worn  by  deer  going  to  a  spring.  Then  into  her  troubled 
mind  flashed  the  joyful  thought,  she  had  found  a  trail. 

Soft,  wiry  grass,  springing  from  a  wet  soil,  rose  under  her 
feet.  A  little  rill  trickled  alongside  the  trail.  Mossy,  soft- 
•sushioned  stones  lay  imbedded  here  and  there.  Young  maples 


fI4  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

and  hickories  grew  breast-high  on  either  side,  and  the  way 
wound  in  and  out  under  the  lowering  shade  of  forest  monarchs. 

Swiftly  ascending  this  path  she  came  at  length  to  a  point 
where  it  was  possible  to  see  some  distance  ahead.  The  ascent 
became  hardly  noticeable.  Then,  as  she  turned  a  bend  of  the 
trail,  the  light  grew  brighter  and  brighter,  until  presently  all 
was  open  and  clear.  An  oval  space,  covered  with  stones,  lay  be- 
fore her.  A  big,  blasted  chestnut  stood  near  by.  Beyond  was  the 
dim,  purple  haze  of  distance.  Above,  the  pale,  blue  sky  just 
faintly  rose-tinted  by  the  setting  sun.  Far  to  her  left  the  scraggly 
trees  of  a  low  hill  were  tipped  with  orange  and  russet  shades. 
She  had  reached  the  summit. 

Desolate  and  lonely  was  this  little  plateau.  Helen  felt  im- 
measurably far  away  from  home.  Yet  she  could  see  in  the  blue 
distance  the  glancing  river,  the  dark  fort,  and  that  cluster  of 
cabins  which  marked  the  location  of  Fort  Henry.  Sitting  upon 
the  roots  of  the  big  chestnut  tree  she  gazed  around.  There  were 
the  remains  of  a  small  camp-fire.  Beyond,  a  hollow  under  a 
shelving  rock.  A  bed  of  dry  leaves  lay  packed  in  this  shelter. 
Some  one  had  been  here,  and  she  doubted  not  that  it  was  the 
borderman. 

She  was  so  tired  and  her  wrist  pained  so  severely  that  she 
lay  back  against  the  tree-trunk,  closed  her  eyes  and  rested.  A 
weariness,  the  apathy  of  utter  exhaustion,  came  over  her.  She 
wished  the  bordermen  would  hurry  and  come  before  she  went 
to  sleep. 

Drowsily  she  was  sinking  into  slumber  when  a  long,  low 
rumble  aroused  her.  How  dark  it  had  suddenly  become!  A  sheet 
of  pale  light  flared  across  the  overcast  heavens. 

"A  storm!"  exclaimed  Helen.  "Alone  on  this  mountain-top 
with  a  storm  coming.  Am  I  frightened?  I  don't  believe  it.  At 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  115 

least  I'm  safe  from  that  ruffian  Brandt.  Oh!  if  my  borderman 
would  only  come!" 

Helen  changed  her  position  from  beside  the  tree,  to  the  hol- 
low under  the  stone.  It  was  high  enough  to  permit  of  her  sitting 
upright,  and  offered  a  safe  retreat  from  the  storm.  The  bed  of 
leaves  was  soft  and  comfortable.  She  sat  there  peering  out  at 
the  darkening  heavens. 

All  beneath  her,  southward  and  westward  was  gray  twilight. 
The  settlement  faded  from  sight;  the  river  grew  wan  and 
shadowy.  The  ruddy  light  in  the  west  was  fast  succumbing  to 
the  rolling  clouds.  Darker  and  darker  it  became,  until  only  one 
break  in  the  overspreading  vapors  admitted  the  last  crimson 
gleam  of  sunshine  over  hills  and  valley,  brightening  the  river 
until  it  resembled  a  stream  of  fire.  Then  the  light  failed,  the 
glow  faded.  The  intense  blackness  of  night  prevailed. 

Out  of  the  ebon  west  came  presently  another  flare  of  light,  a 
quick,  spreading  flush,  like  a  flicker  from  a  monster  candle;  it 
was  followed  by  a  long,  low,  rumbling  roll. 

Helen  felt  in  those  intervals  of  unutterably  vast  silence,  that 
she  must  shriek  aloud.  The  thunder  was  a  friend.  She  prayed 
for  the  storm  to  break.  She  had  withstood  danger  and  toilsome 
effort  with  fortitude;  but  could  not  brave  this  awful,  boding, 
wilderness  stillness. 

Flashes  of  lightning  now  revealed  the  rolling,  pushing,  tur- 
bulent clouds,  and  peals  of  thunder  sounded  nearer  and  louder. 

A  long  swelling  moan,  sad,  low,  like  the  uneasy  sigh  of  the 
sea,  breathed  far  in  the  west.  It  was  the  wind,  the  ominous 
warning  of  the  storm.  Sheets  of  light  were  now  mingled  with 
long,  straggling  ropes  of  fire,  and  the  rumblings  were  often 
broken  by  louder,  quicker  detonations. 

Then  a  period,  longer  than  usual,  of  inky  blackness  succeeded 


Il6  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

the  sharp  flaring  of  light.  A  faint  breeze  ruffled  the  leaves  of  the 
thicket,  and  fanned  Helen's  hot  cheek.  The  moan  of  the  wind 
became  more  distinct,  then  louder,  and  in  another  instant  like 
the  far-off  roar  of  a  rushing  river.  The  storm  was  upon  her. 
Helen  shrank  closer  against  the  stone,  and  pulled  her  jacket 
tighter  around  her  trembling  form. 

A  sudden,  intense,  dazzling,  blinding,  white  light  enveloped 
her.  The  rocky  promontory,  the  weird,  giant  chestnut  tree,  the 
open  plateau,  and  beyond,  the  stormy  heavens,  were  all  luridly 
clear  in  the  flash  of  lightning.  She  fancied  it  was  possible  to 
see  a  tall,  dark  figure  emerging  from  the  thicket.  As  the  thun- 
derclap rolled  and  pealed  overhead,  she  strained  her  eyes  into 
the  blackness  waiting  for  the  next  lightning  flash. 

It  came  with  brilliant,  dazing  splendor.  The  whole  plateau 
•and  thicket  were  as  light  as  in  the  day.  Close  by  the  stone  where 
she  lay  crept  the  tall,  dark  figure  of  an  Indian.  With  starting 
eyes  she  saw  the  fringed  clothing,  the  long,  flying  hair,  and 
supple  body  peculiar  to  the  savage.  He  was  creeping  upon  her. 

Helen's  blood  ran  cold;  terror  held  her  voiceless.  She  felt  her- 
self sinking  slowly  down  upon  the  leaves. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  sun  had  begun  to  cast  long  shadows  the  afternoon  of 
Helen's  hunt  for  Jonathan,  when  the  borderman,  accompanied 
by  Wetzel,  led  a  string  of  horses  along  the  base  of  the  very 
mountain  she  had  ascended. 

"Last  night's  job  was  a  good  one,  I  ain't  gainsayin';  but  the 
redskin  I  wanted  got  away,"  Wetzel  said  gloomily. 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  117 

"He's  safe  now  as  a  squirrel  in  a  hole.  I  saw  him  dartin'  among 
the  trees  with  his  white  eagle  feathers  stickin'  up  like  a  buck's 
flag,"  replied  Jonathan.  "He  can  run.  If  I'd  only  had  my  rifle 
loaded!  But  I'm  not  sure  he  was  that  arrow-shootin'  Shawnee." 

"It  was  him.  I  saw  his  bow.  We  ought'er  taken  more  time  an' 
picked  him  out,"  Wetzel  replied,  shaking  his  head  gravely. 
"Though  mebbe  that'd  been  useless.  I  think  he  was  hidin'.  He's 
precious  shy  of  his  red  skin.  I've  been  after  him  these  ten  year, 
an'  never  ketched  him  nappin'  yet.  We'd  have  done  much  to- 
ward snuffin'  out  Legget  an'  his  gang  if  we'd  winged  the  Shaw- 
nee." 

"He  left  a  plain  trail." 

"One  of  his  tricks.  He's  slicker  on  a  trail  than  any  other  In- 
jun on  the  border,  unless  mebbe  it's  old  Wingenund,  the  Huron. 
Thif  Shawnee'd  lead  us  many  a  mile  for  nuthin',  if  we'd  stick 
to  his  trail.  I'm  long  ago  used  to  him.  He's  doubled  like  an  old 
fox,  run  harder 'n  a  skeered  fawn,  an',  if  needs  be,  he'll  lay  low 
as  i  cunnin'  buck.  I  calkilate  once  over  the  mountain,  he's  made 
a  bee-line  east.  We'll  go  on  with  the  hosses,  an'  then  strike 
across  country  to  find  his  trail." 

"It  'pears  to  me,  Lew,  that  we've  taken  a  long  time  in  makin' 
a  show  against  these  hoss-thieves,"  said  Jonathan. 

"I  ain't  sayin'  much;  but  I've  felt  it,"  replied  Wetzel. 

"All  summer,  an'  nothin'  done.  It  was  more  luck  than  sense 
that  we  run  into  those  Injuns  with  the  hosses.  We  only  got 
three  out  of  four,  an'  let  the  best  redskin  give  us  the  slip.  Here 
fall  is  nigh  on  us,  with  winter  comin'  soon,  an'  still  we  don't 
know  who's  the  white  traitor  in  the  settlement." 

"I  said  it's  be  a  long,  an'  mebbe,  our  last  trail." 

"Why?" 

"Because  these  fellars.  red  or  white,  are  in  with  a  picked  gang 


Il8  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

of  the  best  woodsmen  as  ever  outlawed  the  border.  We'll  get 
the  Fort  Henry  hoss-thief.  I'll  back  the  bright-eyed  lass  for  that." 

"I  haven't  seen  her  lately,  an'  allow  she'd  left  me  word  if 
she  learned  anythin'." 

"Wai,  mebbe  it's  as  well  you  hain't  seen  so  much  of  her." 

In  silence  they  traveled  and,  arriving  at  the  edge  of  the 
meadow,  were  about  to  mount  two  of  the  horses,  when  Wetzel 
said  in  a  sharp  tone: 

"Look!" 

He  pointed  to  a  small,  well-defined  moccasin  track  in  the 
black  earth  on  the  margin  of  a  rill. 

"Lew,  it's  a  woman's,  sure's  you're  born,"  declared  Jonathan. 

Wetzel  knelt  and  closely  examined  the  footprint;  "Yes,  a 
woman's,  an'  no  Injun." 

"What?"  Jonathan  exclaimed,  as  he  knelt  to  scrutinize  the 
imprint. 

"This  ain't  half  a  day  old,"  added  Wetzel.  "An'  not  a  red- 
skin's moccasin  near.  What  d'you  reckon?" 

"A  white  girl,  alone,"  replied  Jonathan  as  he  followed  the 
trail  a  short  distance  along  the  brook.  "See,  she's  makin'  up- 
land. Wetzel,  these  tracks  could  hardly  be  my  sister's,  an'  there's 
only  one  other  girl  on  the  border  whose  feet  will  match  'em! 
Helen  Sheppard  has  passed  here,  on  her  way  up  the  mountain 
to  find  you  or  me." 

"I  like  your  reckonin'." 

"She's  suddenly  discovered  somethin',  Injuns,  hoss- thieves, 
the  Fort  Henry  traitor,  or  mebbe,  an'  most  likely,  some  plottin'. 
Bein'  bound  to  secrecy  by  me,  she's  not  told  my  brother.  An' 
it  must  be  call  for  hurry.  She  knows  we  frequent  this  mountain- 
top;  said  Eb  told  her  about  the  way  we  get  here." 

"I'd  calkilate  about  the  same." 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  119 

"What '11  you  do?  Go  with  me  after  her?"  asked  Jonathan. 

"I'll  take  the  hosses,  an'  be  at  the  fort  inside  of  an  hour.  If 
Helen's  gone,  I'll  tell  her  father  you're  close  on  her  trail.  Now 
listen!  It'll  be  dark  soon,  an'  a  storm's  comin'.  Don't  waste  time 
on  her  trail.  Hurry  up  to  the  rock.  She'll  be  there,  if  any  lass 
could  climb  there.  If  not,  come  back  in  the  mornin',  hunt  her 
trail  out,  an'  find  her.  I'm  thinkin',  Jack,  we'll  find  the  Shawnee 
had  somethin'  to  do  with  this.  Whatever  happens  after  I  get 
back  to  the  fort,  I'll  expect  you  hard  on  my  trail." 

Jonathan  bounded  across  the  brook  and  with  an  easy  lope 
began  the  gradual  ascent.  Soon  he  came  upon  a  winding  path. 
He  ran  along  this  for  perhaps  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  until  it 
became  too  steep  for  rapid  traveling,  when  he  settled  down  to 
a  rapid  walk.  The  forest  was  already  dark.  A  slight  rustling  of 
the  leaves  beneath  his  feet  was  the  only  sound,  except  at  long 
intervals  the  distant  rumbling  of  thunder. 

The  mere  possibility  of  Helen's  being  alone  on  that  moun- 
tain seeking  him,  made  Jonathan's  heart  beat  as  it  never  had 
before.  For  weeks  he  had  avoided  her,  almost  forgot  her.  He 
had  conquered  the  strange,  yearning  weakness  which  assailed 
him  after  that  memorable  Sunday,  and  once  more  the  silent 
shaded  glens,  the  mystery  of  the  woods,  the  breath  of  his  wild, 
free  life  had  claimed  him.  But  now  as  this  evidence  of  her  spirit, 
her  recklessness,  was  before  him,  and  he  remembered  Betty's 
avowal,  a  pain,  which  was  almost  physical,  tore  at  his  heart. 
How  terrible  it  would  be  if  she  came  to  her  death  through  him! 
He  pictured  the  big,  alluring  eyes,  the  perfect  lips,  the  haunt- 
ing face,  cold  in  death.  And  he  shuddered. 

The  dim  gloom  of  the  woods  soon  darkened  into  blackness. 
The  flashes  of  lightning,  momentarily  streaking  the  foliage,  or 


I2O  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

sweeping  overhead  in  pale  yellow  sheets,  aided  Jonathan  in 
keeping  the  trail. 

He  gained  the  plateau  just  as  a  great  flash  illumined  it,  and 
distinctly  saw  the  dark  hollow  where  he  had  taken  refuge  in 
many  a  storm,  and  where  he  now  hoped  to  find  the  girl.  Pick- 
ing his  way  carefully  over  the  sharp,  loose  stones,  he  at  last 
put  his  hand  on  the  huge  rock.  Another  blue-white,  dazzling 
flash  enveloped  the  scene. 

Under  the  rock  he  saw  a  dark  form  huddled,  and  a  face  as 
white  as  snow,  with  wide,  horrified  eyes. 

"Lass,"  he  said,  when  the  thunder  had  rumbled  away.  He  re- 
ceived no  answer,  and  called  again.  Kneeling,  he  groped  about 
until  touching  Helen's  dress.  He  spoke  again;  but  she  did  not 
reply. 

Jonathan  crawled  under  the  ledge  beside  the  quiet  figure.  He 
touched  her  hands;  they  were  very  cold.  Bending  over,  he  was 
relieved  to  hear  her  heart  beating.  He  called  her  name,  but  still 
she  made  no  reply.  Dipping  his  hand  into  a  little  rill  that  ran 
beside  the  stone,  he  bathed  her  face.  Soon  she  stirred  uneasily, 
moaned,  and  suddenly  sat  up. 

"  Tis  Jonathan,"  he  said  quickly;  "don't  be  scared." 

Another  illuminating  flare  of  lightning  brightened  the  plateau. 

"Oh!  thank  Heaven!"  cried  Helen.  "I  thought  you  were  an 
Indian!" 

Helen  sank  trembling  against  the  borderman,  who  enfolded 
her  in  his  long  arms.  Her  relief  and  thankfulness  were  so  great 
that  she  could  not  speak.  Her  hands  clasped  and  unclasped 
round  his  strong  fingers.  Her  tears  flowed  freely. 

The  storm  broke  with  terrific  fury.  A  seething  torrent  of  rain 
and  hail  came  with  the  rushing  wind.  Great  heaven-broad  sheets 
of  lightning  played  across  the  black  dome  overhead.  Zigzag 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  121 

ropes,  steel-blue  in  color,  shot  downward.  Crash,  and  crack, 
and  boom  the  thunder  split  and  rolled  the  clouds  above.  The 
lightning  flashes  showed  the  fall  of  rain  in  columns  like  white 
waterfalls,  borne  on  the  irresistible  wind. 

The  grandeur  of  the  storm  awed,  and  stilled  Helen's  emotion. 
She  sat  there  watching  the  lightning,  listening  to  the  peals  of 
thunder,  and  thrilling  with  the  wonder  of  the  situation. 

Gradually  the  roar  abated,  the  flashes  became  less  frequent, 
the  thunder  decreased,  as  the  storm  wore  out  its  strength  in 
passing.  The  wind  and  rain  ceased  on  the  mountain-top  almost 
as  quickly  as  they  had  begun,  and  the  roar  died  slowly  away  in 
the  distance.  Far  to  the  eastward  flashes  of  light  illumined 
scowling  clouds,  and  brightened  many  a  dark,  wooded  hill  and 
valley. 

"Lass,  how  is't  I  find  you  here?"  asked  Jonathan  gravely. 

With  many  a  pause  and  broken  phrase,  Helen  told  the  story 
of  what  she  had  seen  and  heard  at  the  spring. 

"Child,  why  didn't  you  go  to  my  brother?"  asked  Jonathan. 
"You  don't  know  what  you  undertook!" 

"I  thought  of  everything;  but  I  wanted  to  find  you  myself. 
Besides,  I  was  just  as  safe  alone  on  this  mountain  as  in  the 
village." 

"I  don't  know  but  you're  right,"  replied  Jonathan  thought- 
fully. "So  Brandt  planned  to  make  off  with  you  to-morrow?" 

"Yes,  and  when  I  heard  it  I  wanted  to  run  away  from  the 
village." 

"You've  done  a  wondrous  clever  thing,  lass.  This  Brandt  is  a 
bad  man,  an'  hard  to  match.  But  if  he  hasn't  shaken  Fort  Henry 
by  now,  his  career'll  end  mighty  sudden,  an'  his  bad  trails  stop 
short  on  the  hillside  among  the  graves,  for  Eb  will  always  give 
outlaws  or  Injuns  decent  burial." 


122  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

"What  will  the  colonel,  or  anyone,  think  has  become  of  me?" 

"Wetzel  knows,  lass,  for  he  found  your  trail  below." 

"Then  he'll  tell  papa  you  came  after  me?  Oh!  poor  papa!  I 
forgot  him.  Shall  we  stay  here  until  daylight?" 

"We'd  gain  nothin'  by  startin'  now.  The  brooks  are  full,  an 
in  the  dark  we'd  make  little  distance.  You're  dry  here,  an'  com. 
fortable.  What's  more,  lass,  you're  safe." 

"I  feel  perfectly  safe,  with  you,"  Helen  said  softly. 

"Aren't  you  tired,  lass?" 

"Tired?  I'm  nearly  dead.  My  feet  are  cut  and  bruised,  my 
wrist  is  sprained,  and  I  ache  all  over.  But,  Jonathan,  I  don't  care. 
I  am  so  happy  to  have  my  wild  venture  turn  out  successfully." 

"You  can  lie  here  an'  sleep  while  I  keep  watch." 

Jonathan  made  a  move  to  withdraw  his  arm,  which  was  still 
between  Helen  and  the  rock  but  had  dropped  from  her  waist. 

"I  am  very  comfortable.  I'll  sit  here  with  you,  watching  for 
daybreak.  My!  how  dark  it  is!  I  cannot  see  my  hand  before 
my  eyes." 

Helen  settled  herself  back  upon  the  stone,  leaned  a  very  little 
against  his  shoulder,  and  tried  to  think  over  her  adventure.  But 
her  mind  refused  to  entertain  any  ideas,  except  those  of  the 
present.  Mingled  with  the  dreamy  lassitude  that  grew  stronger 
every  moment,  was  a  sense  of  delight  in  her  situation.  She  was 
alone  on  a  wild  mountain,  in  the  night,  with  this  borderman, 
the  one  she  loved.  By  chance  and  her  own  foolhardiness  this  had 
come  about,  yet  she  was  fortunate  to  have  it  tend  to  some  good 
beyond  her  own  happiness.  All  she  would  suffer  from  her 
perilous  climb  would  be  aching  bones,  and,  perhaps,  a  scolding 
from  her  father.  What  she  might  gain  was  more  than  she  had 
dared  hope.  The  breaking  up  of  the  horse-thief  gang  would  be 
a  boon  to  the  harassed  settlement.  How  proudlv  Colonel  Zane 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  123 

would  smile!  Her  name  would  go  on  that  long  roll  of  border 
honor  and  heroism.  That  was  not,  however,  one  thousandth 
part  so  pleasing,  as  to  be  alone  with  her  borderman. 

With  a  sigh  of  mingled  weariness  and  content,  Helen  leaned 
her  head  on  Jonathan's  shoulder  and  fell  asleep. 

The  borderman  trembled.  The  sudden  nestling  of  her  head 
against  him,  the  light  caress  of  her  fragrant  hair  across  his 
cheek,  revived  a  sweet,  almost-conquered,  almost-forgotten 
emotion.  He  felt  an  inexplicable  thrill  vibrate  through  him.  No 
untrodden,  ambushed  wild,  no  perilous  trail,  no  dark  and  bloody 
encounter  had  ever  made  him  feel  fear  as  had  the  kiss  of  this 
maiden.  He  had  sternly  silenced  faint,  unfamiliar,  yet  tender, 
voices  whispering  in  his  heart;  and  now  his  rigorous  discipline 
was  as  if  it  were  not,  for  at  her  touch  he  trembled.  Still  he  did 
not  move  away.  He  knew  she  had  succumbed  to  weariness,  and 
was  fast  asleep.  He  could,  gently,  without  awakening  her,  have 
laid  her  head  upon  the  pillow  of  leaves;  indeed,  he  thought  of 
doing  it,  but  made  no  effort.  A  woman's  head  softly  lying 
against  him  was  a  thing  novel,  strange,  wonderful.  For  all  the 
power  he  had  then,  each  tumbling  lock  of  her  hair  might  as 
well  have  been  a  chain  linking  him  fast  to  the  mountain. 

With  the  memory  of  his  former  yearning,  unsatisfied  moods, 
and  the  unrest  and  pain  his  awakening  tenderness  had  caused 
him,  came  a  determination  to  look  things  fairly  in  the  face,  to 
be  just  in  thought  toward  this  innocent,  impulsive  girl,  and  be 
honest  with  himself. 

Duty  commanded  that  he  resist  all  charm  other  than  that 
pertaining  to  his  life  in  the  woods.  Years  ago  he  had  accepted  a 
borderman's  destiny,  well  content  to  be  recompensed  by  it» 
untamed  freedom  from  restraint;  to  be  always  under  the  trees 
he  loved  so  well;  to  lend  his  cunning  and  woodcraft  in  the 


124  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

pioneer's  cause;  to  haunt  the  savage  trails;  to  live  from  day  to 
day  a  menace  to  the  foes  of  civilization.  That  was  the  life  he 
had  chosen;  it  was  all  he  could  ever  have. 

In  view  of  this,  justice  demanded  that  he  allow  no  friendship 
to  spring  up  between  himself  and  this  girl.  If  his  sister's  belief 
was  really  true,  if  Helen  really  was  interested  in  him,  it  must 
be  a  romantic  infatuation  which,  not  encouraged,  would  wear 
itself  out.  What  was  he,  to  win  the  love  of  any  girl?  An  un- 
lettered borderman,  who  knew  only  the  woods,  whose  life  was 
hard  and  cruel,  whose  hands  were  red  with  Indian  blood,  whose 
vengeance  had  not  spared  men  even  of  his  own  race.  He  could 
not  believe  she  really  loved  him.  Wildly  impulsive  as  girls  were 
at  times,  she  had  kissed  him.  She  had  been  grateful,  carried 
away  by  a  generous  feeling  for  him  as  the  protector  of  her 
father.  When  she  did  not  see  him  for  a  long  time,  as  he  vowed 
should  be  the  case  after  he  had  carried  her  safely  home,  she 
would  forget. 

Then  honesty  demanded  that  he  probe  his  own  feelings. 
Sternly,  as  if  judging  a  renegade,  he  searched  out  in  his  simple 
way  the  truth.  This  big-eyed  lass  with  her  nameless  charm 
would  bewitch  even  a  borderman,  unless  he  avoided  her.  So 
much  he  had  not  admitted  until  now.  Love  he  had  never  be- 
lieved could  be  possible  for  him.  When  she  fell  asleep  her  hand 
had  slipped  from  his  arm  to  his  fingers,  and  now  rested  there 
lightly  as  a  leaf.  The  contact  was  delight.  The  gentle  night 
breeze  blew  a  tress  of  hair  across  his  lips.  He  trembled.  Her1 
rounded  shoulder  pressed  against  him  until  he  could  feel  her 
slow,  deep  breathing.  He  almost  held  his  own  breath  lest  he 
disturb  her  rest. 

No,  he  was  no  longer  indifferent.  As  surely  as  those  pale  stars 
blinked  far  above,  he  knew  the  delight  of  a  woman's  presence. 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  125 

It  moved  him  to  study  the  emotion,  as  he  studied  all  things, 
which  was  the  habit  of  his  borderman's  life.  Did  it  come  from 
knowledge  of  her  beauty,  matchless  as  that  of  the  mountain- 
laurel?  He  recalled  the  dark  glance  of  her  challenging  eyes,  her 
tall,  supple  figure,  and  the  bewildering  excitation  and  magnet- 
ism of  her  presence.  Beauty  was  wonderful,  but  not  everything. 
Beauty  belonged  to  her,  but  she  would  have  been  irresistible 
without  it.  Was  it  not  because  she  was  a  woman?  That  was  the 
secret.  She  was  a  woman  with  all  a  woman's  charm  to  bewitch, 
to  twine  round  the  strength  of  men  as  the  ivy  encircles  the  oak; 
with  all  a  woman's  weakness  to  pity  and  to  guard;  with  all  a 
woman's  wilful  burning  love,  and  with  all  a  woman's  mystery. 

At  last  so  much  of  life  was  intelligible  to  him.  The  renegade 
committed  his  worst  crimes  because  even  in  his  outlawed,  home- 
less state,  he  could  not  exist  without  the  companionship,  if  not 
the  love,  of  a  woman.  The  pioneer's  toil  and  privation  were 
for  a  woman,  and  the  joy  of  loving  her  and  living  for  her.  The 
Indian  brave,  when  not  on  the  war-path,  walked  hand  in  hand 
with  a  dusky,  soft-eyed  maiden,  and  sang  to  her  of  moonlit 
lakes  and  western  winds.  Even  the  birds  and  beasts  mated.  The 
robins  returned  to  their  old  nest;  the  eagles  paired  once  and 
were  constant  in  life  and  death.  The  buck  followed  the  doe 
through  the  forest.  All  nature  sang  that  love  made  life  worth 
living.  Love,  then,  was  everything. 

The  borderman  sat  out  the  long  vigil  of  the  night  watching 
the  stars,  and  trying  to  decide  that  love  was  not  for  him.  If 
Wetzel  had  locked  a  secret  within  his  breast,  and  never  in  all 
these  years  spoke  of  it  to  his  companion,  then  surely  that  com- 
panion could  as  well  live  without  love.  Stern,  dark,  deadly  work 
must  stain  and  blot  all  tenderness  from  his  life,  else  it  would 
be  unutterably  barren.  The  joy  of  living,  of  unharassed  free- 


126  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

dom  he  had  always  known.  If  a  fair  face  and  dark,  mournful 
eyes  were  to  haunt  him  on  every  lonely  trail,  then  it  were  better 
an  Indian  should  end  his  existence. 

The  darkest  hour  before  dawn,  as  well  as  the  darkest  of  doubt 
and  longing  in  Jonathan's  life,  passed  away.  A  gray  gloom  ob- 
scured the  pale,  winking  stars;  the  east  slowly  whitened,  then 
brightened,  and  at  length  day  broke  misty  and  fresh. 

The  borderman  rose  to  stretch  his  cramped  limbs.  When  he 
turned  to  the  little  cavern  the  girl's  eyes  were  wide  open.  All 
the  darkness,  the  shadow,  the  beauty,  and  the  thought  of  the 
past  night,  lay  in  their  blue  depths.  He  looked  away  across  the 
valley  where  the  sky  was  reddening  and  a  pale  rim  of  gold 
appeared  above  the  hill-tops. 

"Well,  if  I  haven't  been  asleep!"  exclaimed  Helen,  with  a  low, 
soft  laugh. 

"You're  rested,  I  hope,"  said  Jonathan,  with  averted  eyes.  He 
dared  not  look  at  her. 

"Oh,  yes,  indeed.  I  am  ready  to  start  at  once.  How  gray,  how 
beautiful  the  morning  is!  Shall  we  be  long?  I  hope  papa  knows." 

In  silence  the  borderman  led  the  way  across  the  rocky  plateau, 
and  into  the  winding,  narrow  trail.  His  pale,  slightly  drawn 
and  stern,  face  did  not  invite  conversation,  therefore  Helen 
followed  silently  in  his  footsteps.  The  way  was  steep,  and  at 
times  he  was  forced  to  lend  her  aid.  She  put  her  hand  in  his 
and  jumped  lightly  as  a  fawn.  Presently  a  brawling  brook,  over- 
crowding its  banks,  impeded  further  progress. 

"I'll  have  to  carry  you  across,"  said  Jonathan. 

"I'm  very  heavy,"  replied  Helen,  with  a  smile  in  her  eyes. 

She  flushed  as  the  borderman  put  his  right  arm  around  her 
waist.  Then  a  clasp  as  of  steel  enclosed  her;  she  felt  herself 
swinging  easily  into  the  air,  and  over  the  muddy  brook. 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  127 

Farther  down  the  mountain  this  troublesome  brook  again 
crossed  the  trail,  this  time  much  wider  and  more  formidable. 
Helen  looked  with  some  vexation  and  embarrassment  into  the 
borderman's  face.  It  was  always  the  same,  stern,  almost  cold. 

"Perhaps  I'd  better  wade,"  she  said  hesitatingly. 

"Why?  The  water's  deep  an'  cold.  You'd  better  not  get  wet." 

Helen  flushed,  but  did  not  answer.  With  downcast  eyes  she 
let  herself  be  carried  on  his  powerful  arm. 

The  wading  was  difficult  this  time.  The  water  foamed  fu- 
riously around  his  knees.  Once  he  slipped  on  a  stone,  and  nearly 
lost  his  balance.  Uttering  a  little  scream  Helen  grasped  at  him 
wildly,  and  her  arm  encircled  his  neck.  What  was  still  more 
trying,  when  he  put  her  on  her  feet  again,  it  was  found  that  her 
hair  had  become  entangled  in  the  porcupine  quills  on  his  hunt- 
ing-coat. 

She  stood  before  him  while  with  clumsy  fingers  he  endeavored 
to  untangle  the  shimmering  strands;  but  in  vain.  Helen  un- 
wound the  snarl  of  wavy  hair.  Most  alluring  she  was  then,  with 
a  certain  softness  on  her  face,  and  light  and  laughter,  and  some- 
thing warm  in  her  eyes. 

The  borderman  felt  that  he  breathed  a  subtle  exhilaration 
which  emanated  from  her  glowing,  gracious  beauty.  She  radi- 
ated with  the  gladness  of  life,  with  an  uncontainable  sweetness 
and  joy.  But,  giving  no  token  of  his  feeling,  he  turned  to  march 
on  down  through  the  woods. 

From  this  point  the  trail  broadened,  descending  at  an  easier 
angle.  Jonathan's  stride  lengthened  until  Helen  was  forced  to 
walk  rapidly,  and  sometimes  run,  in  order  to  keep  close  behind 
him.  A  quick  journey  home  was  expedient,  and  in  order  to 
accomplish  this  she  would  gladly  have  exerted  herself  to  a 


128  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

greater  extent.  When  they  reached  the  end  of  the  trail  where 
the  forest  opened  clear  of  brush,  finally  to  merge  into  the  broad, 
verdant  plain,  the  sun  had  chased  the  mist-clouds  from  the 
eastern  hill-tops,  and  was  gloriously  brightening  the  valley. 

With  the  touch  of  sentiment  natural  to  her,  Helen  gazed 
backward  for  one  more  view  of  the  mountain-top.  The  wall  of 
rugged  rock  she  had  so  often  admired  from  her  window  at 
home,  which  henceforth  would  ever  hold  a  tender  place  of  re- 
membrance in  her  heart,  rose  out  of  a  gray-blue  bank  of  mist. 
The  long,  swelling  slope  lay  clear  to  the  sunshine.  With  the 
rays  of  the  sun  gleaming  and  glistening  upon  the  variegated 
foliage,  and  upon  the  shiny  rolling  haze  above,  a  beautiful  pic- 
ture of  autumn  splendor  was  before  her.  Tall  pines,  here  and 
there  towered  high  and  lonely  over  the  surrounding  trees.  Their 
dark,  green,  graceful  heads  stood  in  bold  relief  above  the  gold 
and  yellow  crests  beneath.  Maples,  tinged  from  faintest  pink  to 
deepest  rose,  added  warm  color  to  the  scene,  and  chestnuts 
with  their  brown-white  burrs  lent  fresher  beauty  to  the  undu- 
lating slope. 

The  remaining  distance  to  the  settlement  was  short.  Jona- 
than spoke  only  once  to  Helen,  then  questioning  her  as  to  where 
she  had  left  her  canoe.  They  traversed  the  meadow,  found  the 
boat  in  the  thicket  of  willows,  and  were  soon  under  the  frown- 
ing bluff  of  Fort  Henry.  Ascending  the  steep  path,  they  followed 
the  road  leading  to  Colonel  Zane's  cabin. 

A  crowd  of  boys,  men  and  women  loitering  near  the  bluff 
arrested  Helen's  attention.  Struck  by  this  unusual  occurrence, 
she  wondered  what  was  the  cause  of  such  idleness  among  the 
busy  pioneer  people.  They  were  standing  in  little  groups.  Some 
made  vehement  gestures,  others  conversed  earnestly,  and  yet 
more  were  silent.  On  seeing  Jonathan,  a  number  shouted  and 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  I2p 

pointed  toward  the  inn.  The  borderman  hurried  Helen  along 
the  path,  giving  no  heed  to  the  throng. 

But  Helen  had  seen  the  cause  of  all  this  excitement.  At  first 
glance  she  thought  Metzar's  inn  had  been  burned;  but  a  sec- 
ond later  it  could  be  seen  that  the  smoke  came  from  a  smolder- 
ing heap  of  rubbish  in  the  road.  The  inn,  nevertheless,  had  been 
wrecked.  Windows  stared  with  that  vacantness  peculiar  to 
deserted  houses.  The  doors  were  broken  from  their  hinges.  A 
pile  of  furniture,  rude  tables,  chairs,  beds,  and  other  articles, 
were  heaped  beside  the  smoking  rubbish.  Scattered  around  lay 
barrels  and  kegs  all  with  gaping  sides  and  broken  heads.  Liquor 
had  stained  the  road,  where  it  had  been  soaked  up  by  the 
thirsty  dust. 

Upon  a  shattered  cellar-door  lay  a  figure  covered  with  a  piece 
of  rag  carpet.  When  Helen's  quick  eyes  took  in  this  last,  she 
turned  away  in  horror.  That  motionless  form  might  be  Brandt's. 
Remorse  and  womanly  sympathy  surged  over  her,  for  bad  as 
the  man  had  shown  himself,  he  had  loved  her. 

She  followed  the  borderman,  trying  to  compose  herself.  As 
they  neared  Colonel  Zane's  cabin  she  saw  her  father,  Will,  the 
colonel,  Betty,  Nell,  Mrs.  Zane,  Silas  Zane,  and  others  whom  she 
did  not  recognize.  They  were  all  looking  at  her.  Helen's  throat 
swelled,  and  her  eyes  filled  when  she  got  near  enough  to  see 
her  father's  haggard,  eager  face.  The  others  were  grave.  She 
wondered  guiltily  if  she  had  done  much  wrong. 

In  another  moment  she  was  among  them.  Tears  fell  as  her 
father  extended  his  trembling  hands  to  clasp  her,  and  as  she 
hid  her  burning  face  on  his  breast,  he  cried:  "My  dear,  dear 
child!"  Then  Betty  gave  her  a  great  hug,  and  Nell  flew  about 
them  like  a  happy  bird.  Colonel  Zane's  face  was  pale,  and  wore 
a  clouded,  stern  expression.  She  smiled  timidly  at  him  through 


130  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

her  tears.  "Well!  well!  well!"  he  mused,  while  his  gaze  softened. 
That  was  all  he  said;  but  he  took  her  hand  and  held  it  while 
he  turned  to  Jonathan. 

The  borderman  leaned  on  his  long  rifle,  regarding  him  with 
expectant  eyes. 

"Well,  Jack,  you  missed  a  little  scrimmage  this  morning. 
Wetzel  got  in  at  daybreak.  The  storm  and  horses  held  him  up 
on  the  other  side  of  the  river  until  daylight.  He  told  me  of 
your  suspicions,  with  the  additional  news  that  he'd  found  a 
fresh  Indian  trail  on  the  island  just  across  from  the  inn.  We 
went  down  not  expecting  to  find  any  one  awake;  but  Metzar 
was  hurriedly  packing  some  of  his  traps.  Hah0  a  dozen  men 
were  there,  having  probably  stayed  all  night.  That  little  English 
cuss  was  one  of  them,  and  another,  an  ugly  fellow,  a  stranger 
to  us,  but  evidently  a  woodsman.  Things  looked  bad.  Metzar 
told  a  decidedly  conflicting  story.  Wetzel  and  I  went  outside 
to  talk  over  the  situation,  with  the  result  that  I  ordered  him  to 
clean  out  the  place." 

Here  Colonel  Zane  paused  to  indulge  in  a  grim,  meaning 
laugh. 

"Well,  he  cleaned  out  the  place  all  right.  The  ugly  stranger 
got  rattlesnake-mad,  and  yanked  out  a  big  knife.  Sam  is 
hitching  up  the  team  now  to  haul  what's  left  of  him  up  on  the 
hillside.  Metzar  resisted  arrest,  and  got  badly  hurt.  He's  in  the 
guardhouse.  Case,  who  has  been  drunk  for  a  week,  got  in 
Wetzel's  way  and  was  kicked  into  the  middle  of  next  week. 
He's  been  spitting  blood  for  the  last  hour,  but  I  guess  he's  not 
much  hurt.  Brandt  flew  the  coop  last  night.  Wetzel  found  this 
hid  in  his  room." 

Colonel  Zane  took  a  long,  feathered  arrow  from  where  it  lay 
on  a  bench,  and  held  it  out  to  Jonathan. 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  13! 

"The  Shawnee  signal!  Wetzel  had  it  right,"  muttered  the 
borderman. 

"Exactly.  Lew  found  where  the  arrow  struck  in  the  wall  of 
Brandt's  room.  It  was  shot  from  the  island  at  the  exact  spot 
where  Lew  came  to  an  end  of  the  Indian's  trail  in  the  water." 

"That  Shawnee  got  away  from  us." 

"So  Lew  said.  Well,  he's  gone  now.  So  is  Brandt.  We're  well 
rid  of  the  gang,  if  only  we  never  hear  of  them  again." 

The  borderman  shook  his  head.  During  the  colonel's  recital 
his  face  changed.  The  dark  eyes  had  become  deadly;  the  square 
jaw  was  shut,  the  lines  of  the  cheek  had  grown  tense,  and  over 
his  usually  expressive  countenance  had  settled  a  chill,  lowering 
shade. 

"Lew  thinks  Brandt's  in  with  Bing  Legget.  Well,  d his 

black  traitor  heart!  He's  a  good  man  for  the  worst  and  strong- 
est gang  that  ever  tracked  the  border." 

The  borderman  was  silent;  but  the  furtive,  restless  shifting 
of  his  eyes  over  the  river  and  island,  hill  and  valley,  spoke  more 
plainly  than  words. 

"You're  to  take  his  trail  at  once,"  added  Colonel  Zane.  "I  had 
Bess  put  you  up  some  bread,  meat  and  parched  corn.  No  doubt 
you'll  have  a  long,  hard  tramp.  Good  luck." 

The  borderman  went  into  the  cabin,  presently  emerging  with 
a  buckskin  knapsack  strapped  to  his  shoulder.  He  set  off  east- 
ward with  a  long,  swinging  stride. 

The  women  had  taken  Helen  within  the  house  where,  no 
doubt,  they  could  discuss  with  greater  freedom  the  events  of 
the  previous  day. 

"Sheppard,"  said  Colonel  Zane,  turning  with  a  sparkle  in  his 
eyes.  "Brandt  was  after  Helen  sure  as  a  bad  weed  grows  fast. 
And  certain  as  death  Jonathan  and  Wetzel  will  see  him  cold 


132  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

and  quiet  back  in  the  woods.  That's  a  border  saying,  and  it  means 
a  good  deal.  I  never  saw  Wetzel  so  implacable,  nor  Jonathan 
so  fatally  cold  but  once,  and  that  was  when  Miller,  another 
traitor,  much  like  Brandt,  tried  to  make  away  with  Betty.  It 
would  have  chilled  your  blood  to  see  Wetzel  go  at  that  fool 
this  morning.  Why  did  he  want  to  pull  a  knife  on  the  border- 
man?  It  was  a  sad  sight.  Well,  these  things  are  justifiable.  We 
must  protect  ourselves,  and  above  all  our  women.  We've  had 
bad  men,  and  a  bad  man  out  here  is  something  you  cannot  yet 
appreciate,  come  here  and  slip  into  the  life  of  the  settlement, 
because  on  the  border  you  can  never  tell  what  a  man  is  until 
he  proves  himself.  There  have  been  scores  of  criminals  spread 
over  the  frontier,  and  some  better  men,  like  Simon  Girty,  who 
were  driven  to  outlaw  life.  Simon  must  not  be  confounded  with 
Jim  Girty,  absolutely  the  most  fiendish  desperado  who  ever  lived. 
Why,  even  the  Indians  feared  Jim  so  much  that  after  his  death 
his  skeleton  remained  unmolested  in  the  glade  where  he  was 
killed.  The  place  is  believed  to  be  haunted  now,  by  all  Indians 
and  many  white  hunters,  and  I  believe  the  bones  stand  there 
yet." 

"Stand?"   asked   Sheppard,   deeply   interested. 

"Yes,  it  stands  where  Girty  stood  and  died,  upright  against 
a  tree,  pinned,  pinned  there  by  a  big  knife." 

"Heavens,  man!  Who  did  it?"  Sheppard  cried  in  horror. 

Again  Colonel  Zane's  laugh,  almost  metallic,  broke  grimly 
from  his  lips. 

"Who?  Why,  Wetzel,  of  course.  Lew  hunted  Jim  Girty  five 
long  years.  When  he  caught  him — God!  I'll  tell  you  some  other 
time.  Jonathan  saw  Wetzel  handle  Jim  and  his  pal,  Deering, 
as  if  they  were  mere  boys.  Well,  as  I  said,  the  border  has  had, 
and  still  has,  its  bad  men.  Simon  Girty  took  McKee  and  Elliott, 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  133 

the  Tories,  from  Fort  Pitt,  when  he  deserted,  and  ten  men  be- 
sides. They're  all,  except  those  who  are  dead,  outlaws  of  the 
worst  type.  The  other  bad  men  drifted  out  here  from  Lord 
only  knows  where.  They're  scattered  all  over.  Simon  Girty,  since 
his  crowning  black  deed,  the  massacre  of  the  Christian  Indians, 
is  in  hiding.  Bing  Legget  now  has  the  field.  He's  a  hard  nut,  a 
cunning  woodsman,  and  capable  leader  who  surrounds  himself 
with  only  the  most  desperate  Indians  and  renegades.  Brandt  is 
an  agent  of  Legget's  and  I'll  bet  we'll  hear  from  him  again." 


CHAPTER  XIII 


JONATHAN  traveled  toward  the  east  straight  as  a  crow  flies.  Wet- 
zel's  trail  as  he  pursued  Brandt  had  been  left  designedly  plain. 
Branches  of  young  maples  had  been  broken  by  the  borderman; 
they  were  glaring  evidences  of  his  passage.  On  open  ground,  or 
through  swampy  meadows  he  had  contrived  to  leave  other 
means  to  facilitate  his  comrade's  progress.  Bits  of  sumach  lay 
strewn  along  the  way,  every  red,  leafy  branch  a  bright  marker 
of  the  course;  crimson  maple  leaves  served  their  turn,  and  even 
long-bladed  ferns  were  scattered  at  intervals. 

Ten  miles  east  of  Fort  Henry,  at  a  point  where  two  islands 
lay  opposite  each  other,  Wetzel  had  crossed  the  Ohio.  Jonathan 
removed  his  clothing,  and  tying  these,  together  with  his  knap- 
sack, to  the  rifle,  held  them  above  the  water  while  he  swam  the 
three  narrow  channels.  He  took  up  the  trail  again,  finding  here, 
as  he  expected,  where  Brandt  had  joined  the  waiting  Shawnee 
chief.  The  borderman  pressed  on  harder  to  the  eastward. 


134  THE  LAST 

About  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  signs  betokened  that 
Wetzei  and  his  quarry  were  not  far  in  advance.  Fresh  imprints 
in  the  grass;  crushed  asters  and  moss,  broken  branches  with  un- 
withered  leaves,  and  plots  of  grassy  ground  where  Jonathan 
saw  that  the  blades  of  grass  were  yet  springing  back  to  their 
original  position,  proved  to  the  borderman's  practiced  eye  that 
he  was  close  upon  Wetzei. 

In  time  he  came  to  a  grove  of  yellow  birch  trees.  The  ground 
was  nearly  free  from  brush,  beautifully  carpeted  with  flowers 
and  ferns,  and,  except  where  bushy  windfalls  obstructed  the 
way,  was  singularly  open  to  the  gaze  for  several  hundred  yards 
ahead. 

Upon  entering  this  wood  WetzeFs  plain,  intentional  mark- 
ings became  manifest,  then  wavered,  and  finally  disappeared. 
Jonathan  pondered  a  moment.  He  concluded  that  the  way  was 
so  open  and  clear,  with  nothing  but  grass  and  moss  to  mark 
a  trail,  that  Wetzei  had  simply  considered  it  waste  of  time  for, 
perhaps,  the  short  length  of  this  grove. 

Jonathan  knew  he  was  wrong  after  taking  a  dozen  steps  more. 
Wetzel's  trail,  known  so  well  to  him,  as  never  to  be  mistaken, 
sheered  abruptly  off  to  the  left,  and,  after  a  few  yards,  the  dis- 
tance between  the  footsteps  widened  perceptibly.  Then  came 
a  point  where  they  were  so  far  apart  that  they  could  only  have 
been  made  by  long  leaps. 

On  the  instant  the  borderman  knew  that  some  unforeseen 
peril  or  urgent  cause  had  put  Wetzei  to  flight,  and  he  now  bent 
piercing  eyes  around  the  grove.  Retracing  his  steps  to  where 
he  had  found  the  break  in  the  trail,  he  followed  up  Brandt's  tracks 
for  several  rods.  Not  one  hundred  paces  beyond  where  Wetzei 
had  quit  the  pursuit,  were  the  remains  of  a  camp  fire,  the  em- 
bers still  smoldering,  and  moccasin  tracks  of  a  small  band  of 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  135 

Indians.  The  trail  of  Brandt  and  his  Shawnee  guide  met  the 
others  at  almost  right  angles. 

The  Indian,  either  by  accident  or  design,  had  guided  Brandt 
to  a  band  of  his  fellows,  and  thus  led  Wetzel  almost  into  an 
ambush. 

Evidence  was  not  clear,  however,  that  the  Indians  had  dis- 
covered the  keen  tracker  who  had  run  almost  into  their  midst. 

While  studying  the  forest  ahead  Jonathan's  mind  was  running 
over  the  possibilities.  How  close  was  Wetzel?  Was  he  still  in 
flight?  Had  the  savages  an  inkling  of  his  pursuit?  Or  was  he 
now  working  out  one  of  his  cunning  tricks  of  woodcraft?  The 
borderman  had  no  other  idea  than  that  of  following  the  trail 
to  learn  all  this.  Taking  the  desperate  chances  warranted  under 
the  circumstances,  he  walked  boldly  forward  in  his  comrade's 
footsteps. 

Deep  and  gloomy  was  the  forest  adjoining  the  birch  grove.  It 
was  a  heavy  growth  of  hardwood  trees,  interspersed  with 
slender  ash  and  maples,  which  with  their  scanty  foliage  re- 
sembled a  labyrinth  of  green  and  yellow  network,  like  filmy 
dotted  lace,  hung  on  the  taller,  darker  oaks.  Jonathan  felt  safer 
in  this  deep  wood.  He  could  still  see  several  rods  in  advance. 
Following  the  trail,  he  was  relieved  to  see  that  Wetzel's  leaps 
had  become  shorter  and  shorter,  until  they  once  again  were 
about  the  length  of  a  long  stride.  The  borderman  was,  more- 
over, swinging  in  a  curve  to  the  northeast.  This  was  proof  that 
the  borderman  had  not  been  pursued,  but  was  making  a  wide 
detour  to  get  ahead  of  the  enemy.  Five  hundred  yards  farther 
on  the  trail  turned  sharply  toward  the  birch  grove  in  the  rear. 

The  trail  was  fresh.  Wetzel  was  possibly  within  signal  call; 
surely  within  sound  of  a  rifle  shot.  But  even  more  stirring  was 


136  tHE  LAST  TRAIL 

the  certainty  that  Brandt  and  his  Indians  were  inside  the  circle 
Wetzel  had  made. 

Once  again  in  sight  of  the  more  open  woodland,  Jonathan 
crawled  on  his  hands  and  knees,  keeping  close  to  the  cluster  of 
ferns,  until  well  within  the  eastern  end  of  the  grove.  He  lay 
for  some  minutes  listening.  A  threatening  silence,  like  the  hush 
before  a  storm,  permeated  the  wilderness.  He  peered  out  from 
his  covert;  but,  owing  to  its  location  in  a  little  hollow,  he  could 
not  see  far.  Crawling  to  the  nearest  tree  he  rose  to  his  feet 
slowly,  cautiously. 

No  unnatural  sight  or  sound  arrested  his  attention.  Repeat- 
edly, with  the  acute,  unsatisfied  gaze  of  the  borderman  who 
knew  that  every  tree,  every  patch  of  ferns,  every  tangled  brush- 
heap  might  harbor  a  foe,  he  searched  the  grove  with  his  eyes; 
but  the  curly-barked  birches,  the  clumps  of  colored  ferns,  the 
bushy  windfalls  kept  their  secrets. 

For  the  borderman,  however,  the  whole  aspect  of  the  birch- 
grove  had  changed.  Over  the  forest  was  a  deep  calm.  A  gentle, 
barely  perceptible  wind  sighed  among  the  leaves,  like  rustling 
silk.  The  far-off  drowsy  drum  of  a  grouse  intruded  on  the  vast 
stillness.  The  silence  of  the  birds  betokened  a  message.  That 
mysterious  breathing,  that  beautiful  life  of  the  woods  lay  hushed, 
locked  in  a  waiting,  brooding  silence.  Far  away  among  the 
somber  trees,  where  the  shade  deepened  into  impenetrable 
gloom,  lay  a  menace,  invisible  and  indefinable. 

A  wind,  a  breath,  a  chill,  terribly  potent,  seemed  to  pass  over 
the  borderman.  Long  experience  had  given  him  intuition  of 
danger. 

As  he  moved  slightly,  with  lynx-eyes  fixed  on  the  grove  be- 
fore him,  a  sharp,  clear,  perfect  bird-note  broke  the  ominous 
quiet.  It  was  like  the  melancholy  cry  of  an  oriole,  short,  deep, 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  137 

suggestive  of  lonely  forest  dells.  By  a  slight  variation  in  the 
short  call,  Jonathan  recognized  it  as  a  signal  from  Wetzel. 
The  borderman  smiled  as  he  realized  that  with  all  his  stealth, 
Wetzel  had  heard  or  seen  him  re-enter  the  grove.  The  signal 
was  a  warning  to  stand  still  or  retreat. 

Jonathan's  gaze  narrowed  down  to  the  particular  point 
whence  had  come  the  signal.  Some  two  hundred  yards  ahead 
in  this  direction  were  several  large  trees  standing  in  a  group. 
With  one  exception,  they  all  had  straight  trunks.  This  deviated 
from  the  others  in  that  it  possessed  an  irregular,  bulging  trunk, 
or  else  half-shielded  the  form  of  Wetzel.  So  indistinct  and  im- 
movable was  this  irregularity,  that  the  watcher  could  not  be 
certain.  Out  of  line,  somewhat,  with  this  tree  which  he  sus- 
pected screened  his  comrade,  lay  a  huge  windfall  large  enough 
to  conceal  in  ambush  a  whole  band  of  savages. 

Even  as  he  gazed  a  sheet  of  flame  flashed  from  this  covert. 

Crac^l 

A  loud  report  followed;  then  the  whistle  and  zip  of  a  bullet 
as  it  whizzed  close  by  his  head. 

"Shawnee  lead!"  muttered  Jonathan. 

Unfortunately  the  tree  he  had  selected  did  not  hide  him  suffi- 
ciently. His  shoulders  were  so  wide  that  either  one  or  the  other 
was  exposed,  affording  a  fine  target  for  a  marksman. 

A  quick  glance  showed  him  a  change  in  the  knotty  tree- 
trunk;  the  seeming  bulge  was  now  the  well-known  figure  of 
Wetzel. 

Jonathan  dodged  as  some  object  glanced  slantingly  before 
his  eyes. 

Twang.  Whizz.  Thud.  Three  familiar  and  distinct  sounds 
caused  him  to  press  hard  against  the  tree. 

A  tufted  arrow  quivered  in  the  bark  not  a  foot  from  his  head. 


138  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

"Close  shave!  Damn  that  arrow-shootin'  Shawnee!"  muttered 
Jonathan.  "An'  he  ain't  in  that  windfall  either."  His  eyes 
searched  to  the  left  for  the  source  of  this  new  peril. 

Another  sheet  of  flame,  another  report  from  the  windfall.  A 
bullet  sang,  close  overhead,  and,  glancing  on  a  branch,  went 
harmlessly  into  the  forest. 

"Injuns  all  around;  I  guess  I'd  better  be  makin'  tracks,"  Jona- 
than said  to  himself,  peering  out  to  learn  if  Wetzel  was  still 
under  cover. 

He  saw  the  tall  figure  straighten  up;  a  long,  black  rifle  rise 
to  a  level  and  become  rigid;  a  red  fire  belch  forth,  followed  by 
a  pufl  of  white  smoke. 

Spang! 

An  Indian's  horrible,  strangely-breaking  death  yell  rent  the 
silence. 

Then  a  chorus  of  plaintive  howls,  followed  by  angry  shouts, 
rang  through  the  forest.  Naked,  painted  savages  darted  out  of 
the  windfall  toward  the  tree  that  had  sheltered  Wetzel. 

Quick  as  thought  Jonathan  covered  the  foremost  Indian,  and 
with  the  crack  of  his  rifle  saw  the  redskin  drop  his  gun,  stop 
in  his  mad  run,  stagger  sideways,  and  fall.  Then  the  borderman 
looked  to  see  what  had  become  of  his  ally.  The  cracking  of  the 
Indian's  rifle  told  him  that  Wetzel  had  been  seen  by  his  foes. 

With  almost  incredible  fleetness  a  brown  figure  with  long 
black  hair  streaming  behind,  darted  in  and  out  among  the  trees, 
flashed  through  the  sunlit  glade,  and  vanished  in  the  dark  depths 
of  the  forest. 

Jonathan  turned  to  flee  also,  when  he  heard  again  the  twang- 
ing of  an  Indian's  bow.  A  wind  smote  his  cheek,  a  shock  blinded 
him,  an  excruciating  pain  seized  upon  his  breast.  A  feathered 
arrow  had  pinned  his  shoulder  to  the  tree.  He  raised  his  hand 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  139 

to  pull  it  out;  but,  slippery  with  blood,  it  afforded  a  poor  hold 
for  his  fingers.  Violently  exerting  himself,  with  both  hands  he 
wrenched  away  the  weapon.  The  flint-head  lacerating  his  flesh 
and  scraping  his  shoulder  bones  caused  sharpest  agony.  The 
pain  gave  away  to  a  sudden  sense  of  giddiness;  he  tried  to  run; 
a  dark  mist  veiled  his  sight;  he  stumbled  and  fell.  Then  he 
seemed  to  sink  into  a  great  darkness,  and  knew  no  more. 

When  consciousness  returned  to  Jonathan  it  was  night.  He 
lay  on  his  back,  and  knew  because  of  his  cramped  limbs  that 
he  had  been  securely  bound.  He  saw  the  glimmer  of  a  fire,  but 
could  not  raise  his  head.  A  rustling  of  leaves  in  the  wind  told 
that  he  was  yet  in  the  woods,  and  the  distant  rumble  of  a  water- 
fall sounded  familiar.  He  felt  drowsy;  his  wound  smarted 
slightly,  still  he  did  not  suffer  any  pain.  Presently  he  fell  asleep. 

Broad  daylight  had  come  when  again  he  opened  his  eyes. 
The  blue  sky  was  directly  above,  and  before  him  he  saw  a  ledge 
covered  with  dwarfed  pine  trees.  He  turned  his  head,  and  saw 
that  he  was  in  a  sort  of  amphitheater  of  about  two  acres  in  ex- 
tent enclosed  by  low  cliffs.  A  cleft  in  the  stony  wall  let  out  a 
brawling  brook,  and  served,  no  doubt,  as  entrance  to  the  place. 
Several  rude  log  cabins  stood  on  that  side  of  the  enclosure.  Jona- 
than knew  he  had  been  brought  to  Bing  Legget's  retreat. 

Voices  attracted  his  attention,  and,  turning  his  head  to  the 
other  side,  he  saw  a  big  Indian  pacing  near  him,  and  beyond, 
seven  savages  and  three  white  men  reclining  in  the  shade. 

The  powerful,  dark-visaged  savage  near  him  he  at  once 
recognized  as  Ashbow,  the  Shawnee  chief,  and  noted  emissary 
of  Bing  Legget.  Of  the  other  Indians,  three  were  Delawares, 
and  four  Shawnees,  all  veterans,  with  swarthy,  somber  faces 
and  glistening  heads  on  which  the  scalp-locks  were  trimmed 
and  tufted.  Their  naked,  muscular  bodies  were  painted  for  the 


140  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

war-path  with  their  strange  emblems  of  death.  A  trio  of  white 
men,  nearly  as  bronzed  as  their  savage  comrades,  completed 
the  group.  One,  a  desperate-looking  outlaw,  Jonathan  did  not 
know.  The  blond-bearded  giant  in  the  center  was  Legget. 
Steel-blue,  inhuman  eyes,  with  the  expression  of  a  free  but 
hunted  animal;  a  set,  mastiff-like  jaw,  brutal  and  coarse,  in- 
dividualized him.  The  last  man  was  the  haggard-faced  Brandt. 

"I  tell  ye,  Brandt,  I  ain't  agoin'  against  this  Injun,"  Legget 
was  saying  positively.  "He's  the  best  reddy  on  the  border,  an' 
has  saved  me  scores  of  times.  This  fellar  Zane  belongs  to  him, 
an'  while  I'd  much  rather  see  the  scout  knifed  right  here  an' 
now,  I  won't  do  nothin'  to  interfere  with  the  Shawnee's  plans." 

"Why  does  the  redskin  want  to  take  him  away  to  his  village?" 
Brandt  growled.  "All  Injun  vanity  and  pride." 

"It's  Injun  ways,  an'  we  can't  do  nothin'  to  change  'em." 

"But  you're  boss  here.  You  could  make  him  put  this  border- 
man  out  of  the  way." 

"Wai,  I  ain't  agoin'  ter  interfere.  Anyways,  Brandt,  the  Shaw- 
nee'll  make  short  work  of  the  scout  when  he  gits  him  among 
the  tribe.  Injuns  is  Injuns.  It's  a  great  honor  fer  him  to  git 
Zane,  an'  he  wants  his  own  people  to  figger  in  the  finish.  Quite 
nat'r'l,  I  reckon." 

"I  understand  all  that;  but  it's  not  safe  for  us,  and  it's  court- 
ing death  for  Ashbow.  Why  don't  he  keep  Zane  here  until  you 
can  spare  more  than  three  Indians  to  go  with  him?  These 
bordermen  can't  be  stopped.  You  don't  know  them,  because 
you're  new  in  this  part  of  the  country." 

"I've  been  here  as  long  as  you,  an'  agoin'  some,  too,  I  reckon," 
replied  Legget  complacently. 

"But  you've  not  been  hunted  until  lately  by  these  bordermen, 
and  you've  had  little  opportunity  to  hear  of  them  except  from 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  14! 

Indians.  What  can  you  learn  from  these  silent  redskins?  I  tell 
you,  letting  this  fellow  get  out  of  here  alive,  even  for  an  hour 
is  a  fatal  mistake.  It's  two  full  days'  tramp  to  the  Shawnee 
village.  You  don't  suppose  Wetzel  will  be  afraid  of  four  sav- 
ages? Why,  he  sneaked  right  into  eight  of  us,  when  we  were 
ambushed,  waiting  for  him.  He  killed  one  and  then  was  gone 
like  a  streak.  It  was  only  a  piece  of  pure  luck  we  got  Zane." 

"I've  reason  to  know  this  Wetzel,  this  Deathwind,  as  the 
Delawares  call  him.  I  never  seen  him  though,  an'  anyways,  I 
reckon  I  can  handle  him  if  ever  I  get  the  chance." 

"Man,  you're  crazy!"  cried  Brandt.  "He'd  cut  you  to  pieces 
before  you'd  have  time  to  draw.  He  could  give  you  a  toma- 
hawk, then  take  it  away  and  split  your  head.  I  tell  you  I  know! 
You  remember  Jake  Deering?  He  came  from  up  your  way. 
Wetzel  fought  Deering  and  Jim  Girty  together,  and  killed  them. 
You  know  how  he  left  Girty." 

"I'll  allow  he  must  be  a  fighter;  but  I  ain't  afraid  of  him." 

"That's  not  the  question.  I  am  talking  sense.  You've  got  a 
chance  now  to  put  one  of  these  bordermen  out  of  the  way.  Do 
it  quick!  That's  my  advice." 

Brandt  spoke  so  vehemently  that  Legget  seemed  impressed. 
He  stroked  his  yellow  beard,  and  puffed  thoughtfully  on  his 
pipe.  Presently  he  addressed  the  Shawnee  chief  in  the  native 
tongue. 

"Will  Ashbow  take  five  horses  for  his  prisoner?" 

The  Indian  shook  his  head. 

"How  many  will  he  take?" 

The  chief  strode  with  dignity  to  and  fro  before  his  captive. 
His  dark,  impassive  face  gave  no  clew  to  his  thoughts;  but  his 
lofty  bearing,  his  measured,  stately  walk  were  indicative  of 
great  pride.  Then  he  spoke  in  his  deep  bass: 


142  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

"The  Shawnee  knows  the  woods  from  the  Great  Lakes  where 
the  sun  sets,  to  the  Blue  Hills  where  it  rises.  He  has  met  the 
great  paleface  hunters.  Only  for  Deathwind  will  Ashbow  trade 
his  captive." 

"See?  It  ain't  no  use,"  said  Legget,  spreading  out  his  hands, 
"Let  him  go.  He'll  outwit  the  bordermen  if  any  redskin's  able 
to.  The  sooner  he  goes  the  quicker  he'll  git  back,  an'  we  can 
go  to  work.  You  ought'er  be  satisfied  to  git  the  girl " 

"Shut  up!"  interrupted  Brandt  sharply. 

"  'Pears  to  me,  Brandt,  bein'  in  love  hes  kinder  worked  on 
your  nerves.  You  used  to  be  game.  Now  you're  afeerd  of  a 
bound  an'  tied  man  who  ain't  got  long  to  live." 

"I  fear  no  man,"  answered  Brandt,  scowling  darkly.  "But  I 
know  what  you  don't  seem  to  have  sense  enough  to  see.  If  this 
Zane  gets  away,  which  is  probable,  he  and  Wetzel  will  clean 
up  your  gang." 

"Haw!  haw!  haw!"  roared  Legget,  slapping  his  knees.  "Then 
you'd  hev  little  chanst  of  gittin'  the  lass,  eh?" 

"All  right.  I've  no  more  to  say,"  snapped  Brandt,  rising  and 
turning  on  his  heel.  As  he  passed  Jonathan  he  paused.  "Zane, 
if  I  could,  I'd  get  even  with  you  for  that  punch  you  once  gave 
me.  As  it  is,  I'll  stop  at  the  Shawnee  village  on  my  way  west " 

"With  the  pretty  lass,"  interposed  Legget. 

"Where  I  hope  to  see  your  scalp  drying  in  the  chief's  lodge." 

The  borderman  eyed  him  steadily;  but  in  silence.  Words 
could  not  so  well  have  conveyed  his  thought  as  did  the  cold 
glance  of  dark  scorn  and  merciless  meaning. 

Brandt  shuffled  on  with  a  curse.  No  coward  was  he.  No  man 
ever  saw  him  flinch.  But  his  intelligence  was  against  him  as  a 
desperado.  While  such  as  these  bordermen  lived,  an  outlaw 
should  never  sleep,  for  he  was  a  marked  and  doomed  man.  The 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  143 

deadly,  cold-pointed  flame  which  scintillated  in  the  prisoner's 
eyes  was  only  a  gleam  of  what  the  border  felt  towards  outlaws. 

While  Jonathan  was  considering  all  he  had  heard,  three  more 
Shawnees  entered  the  retreat,  and  were  at  once  called  aside  in 
consultation  by  Ashbow.  At  the  conclusion  of  this  brief  con- 
ference the  chief  advanced  to  Jonathan,  cut  the  bonds  round 
his  feet,  and  motioned  for  him  to  rise.  The  prisoner  complied 
to  find  himself  weak  and  sore,  but  able  to  walk.  He  concluded 
that  his  wound,  while  very  painful,  was  not  of  a  serious  nature, 
and  that  he  would  be  taken  at  once  on  the  march  toward  the 
Shawnee  village. 

He  was  correct,  for  the  chief  led  him,  with  the  three  Shaw- 
nees following,  toward  the  outlet  of  the  enclosure.  Jonathan's 
sharp  eye  took  in  every  detail  of  Legget's  rendezvous.  In  a 
corral  near  the  entrance,  he  saw  a  number  of  fine  horses,  and 
among  them  his  sister's  pony.  A  more  inaccessible,  natural  refuge 
than  Legget's,  could  hardly  have  been  found  in  that  country. 
The  entrance  was  a  narrow  opening  in  the  wall,  and  could  be 
held  by  half  a  dozen  against  an  army  of  besiegers.  It  opened, 
moreover,  on  the  side  of  a  barren  hill,  from  which  could  be  had 
a  good  survey  of  the  surrounding  forests  and  plains. 

As  Jonathan  went  with  his  captors  down  the  hill  his  hopes, 
which  while  ever  alive,  had  been  flagging,  now  rose.  The  long 
journey  to  the  Shawnee  town  led  through  an  untracked  wilder- 
ness. The  Delaware  villages  lay  far  to  the  north;  the  Wyandot 
to  the  west.  No  likelihood  was  there  of  falling  in  with  a  band 
of  Indians  hunting,  because  this  region,  stony,  barren,  and 
poorly  watered,  afforded  sparse  pasture  for  deer  or  bison.  From 
the  prisoner's  point  of  view  this  enterprise  of  Ashbow's  was 
reckless  and  vainglorious.  Cunning  as  the  chief  was,  he  erred 
in  one  point,  a  great  warrior's  only  weakness,  love  of  show, 


144  THE  LAST 

of  pride,  of  his  achievement.  In  Indian  nature  this  desire  for 
fame  was  as  strong  as  love  of  life.  The  brave  risked  everything 
to  win  his  eagle  feathers,  and  the  matured  warrior  found  death 
while  keeping  bright  the  glory  of  the  plumes  he  had  won. 

Wetzel  was  in  the  woods,  fleet  as  a  deer,  fierce  and  fearless 
as  a  lion.  Somewhere  among  those  glades  he  trod,  stealthily, 
with  the  ears  of  a  doe  and  eyes  of  a  hawk  strained  for  sound 
or  sight  of  his  comrade's  captors.  When  he  found  their  trail  he 
would  stick  to  it  as  the  wolf  to  that  of  a  bleeding  buck's.  The 
rescue  would  not  be  attempted  until  the  right  moment,  even 
though  that  came  within  rifle-shot  of  the  Shawnee  encampment. 
Wonderful  as  his  other  gifts,  was  the  borderman's  patience. 


CHAPTER  XIV 


"GooD  MORNING,  Colonel  Zane,"  said  Helen  cheerily,  coming 
into  the  yard  where  the  colonel  was  at  work.  "Did  Will  come 
over  this  way?" 

"I  reckon  you'll  find  him  if  you  find  Betty,"  replied  Colonel 
Zane  dryly. 

"Come  to  think  of  it,  that's  true,"  Helen  said,  laughing.  "I've 
a  suspicion  Will  ran  off  from  me  this  morning." 

"He  and  Betty  have  gone  nutting." 

"I  declare  it's  mean  of  Will,"  Helen  said  petulantly.  "I  have 
been  wanting  to  go  so  much,  and  both  he  and  Betty  promised 
to  take  me." 

"Say,  Helen,  let  me  tell  you  something,"  said  the  colonel, 
resting  on  his  spade  and  looking  at  her  quizzically.  "I  told  them 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  145 

we  hadn't  had  enough  frost  yet  to  ripen  hickory-nuts  and  chest- 
nuts. But  they  went  anyhow.  Will  did  remember  to  say  if  you 
came  along,  to  tell  you  he'd  bring  the  colored  leaves  you 
wanted." 

"How  extremely  kind  of  him.  I've  a  mind  to  follow  them." 
"Now  see  here,  Helen,  it  might  be  a  right  good  idea  for  you 
not  to,"  returned  the  colonel,  with  a  twinkle  and  a  meaning 
in  his  eye. 

"Oh,  I  understand.  How  singularly  dull  I've  been." 
"It's  this  way.  We're  mighty  glad  to  have  a  fine  young  fellow 
like  Will  come  along  and  interest  Betty.  Lord  knows  we  had  a 
time  with  her  after  Alfred  died.  She's  just  beginning  to  brighten 
up  now,  and,  Helen,  the  point  is  that  young  people  on  the 
border  must  get  married.  No,  my  dear,  you  needn't  laugh, 
you'll  have  to  find  a  husband  same  as  the  other  girls.  It's  not 
here  as  it  was  back  east,  where  a  lass  might  have  her  fling,  so 
to  speak,  and  take  her  time  choosing.  An  unmarried  girl  on  the 
border  is  a  positive  menace.  I  saw,  not  many  years  ago,  two 
first-rate  youngsters,  wild  with  border  fire  and  spirit,  fight  and 
kill  each  other  over  a  lass  who  wouldn't  choose.  Like  as  not, 
if  she  had  done  so,  the  three  would  have  been  good  friends, 
for  out  here  we're  like  one  big  family.  Remember  this,  Helen, 
and  as  far  as  Betty  and  Will  are  concerned  you  will  be  wise  to 
follow  our  example:  Leave  them  to  themselves.  Nothing  else 
will  so  quickly  strike  fire  between  a  boy  and  a  girl." 

"Betty  and  Will!  I'm  sure  I'd  love  to  see  them  care  for  each 
other."  Then  with  big,  bright  eyes  bent  gravely  on  him  she 
continued,  "May  I  ask,  Colonel  Zane,  who  you  have  picked  out 
for  me?" 

"There,  now  you've  said  it,  and  that's  the  problem.  I've  looked 
over  every  marriageable  young  man  in  the  settlement,  except 


146  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

Jack.  Of  course  you  couldn't  care  for  him,  a  borderman,  a 
fighter  and  all  that;  but  I  can't  find  a  fellow  I  think  quite  up  to 
you." 

"Colonel  Zane,  is  not  a  borderman  such  as  Jonathan  worthy 
a  woman's  regard?"  Helen  asked  a  little  wistfully. 

"Bless  your  heart,  lass,  yes!"  replied  Colonel  Zane  heartily. 
"People  out  here  are  not  as  they  are  back  east.  An  educated  man, 
polished  and  all  that,  but  incapable  of  hard  labor,  or  shrinking 
from  dirt  and  sweat  on  his  hands,  or  even  blood,  would  not  help 
us  in  the  winning  of  the  West.  Plain  as  Jonathan  is,  and  with 
his  lack  of  schooling,  he  is  greatly  superior  to  the  majority  of 
young  men  on  the  frontier.  But,  unlettered  or  not,  he  is  as  fine  a 
man  as  ever  stepped  in  moccasins,  or  any  other  kind  of  foot 
gear." 

"Then  why  did  you  say — that — what  you  did?" 

"Well,  it's  this  way,"  replied  Colonel  Zane,  stealing  a  glance  at 
her  pensive,  downcast  face.  "Girls  all  like  to  be  wooed.  Almost 
every  one  I  ever  knew  wanted  the  young  man  of  her  choice  to 
outstrip  all  her  other  admirers,  and  then,  for  a  spell,  nearly  die 
of  love  for  her,  after  which  she'd  give  in.  Now,  Jack,  being  a 
borderman,  a  man  with  no  occupation  except  scouting,  will  never 
look  at  a  girl,  let  alone  make  up  to  her.  I  imagine,  my  dear,  it'd 
take  some  mighty  tall  courting  to  fetch  home  Helen  Sheppard  a 
bride.  On  the  other  hand,  if  some  pretty  and  spirited  lass,  like, 
say  for  instance,  Helen  Sheppard,  would  come  along  and  just 
make  Jack  forget  Indians  and  fighting,  she'd  get  the  finest  hus- 
band in  the  world.  True,  he's  wild;  but  only  in  the  woods.  A 
simpler,  kinder,  cleaner  man  cannot  be  found." 

"I  believe  that,  Colonel  Zane;  but  where  is  the  girl  who  would 
interest  him?"  Helen  asked  with  spirit.  "These  bordermen  are 
unapproachable.  Imagine  a  girl  interesting  that  great,  cold,  stern 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  147 

Wetzel!  All  her  flatteries,  her  wiles,  the  little  coquetries  that 
might  attract  ordinary  men,  would  not  be  noticed  by  him,  or 
Jonathan  either." 

"I  grant  it'd  not  be  easy,  but  woman  was  made  to  subjugate 
man,  and  always,  everlastingly,  until  the  end  of  life  here  on  this 
beautiful  earth,  she  will  do  it." 

"Do  you  think  Jonathan  and  Wetzel  will  catch  Brandt?"  asked 
Helen,  changing  the  subject  abruptly. 

"I'd  stake  my  all  that  this  year's  autumn  leaves  will  fall  on 
Brandt's  grave." 

Colonel  Zane's  calm,  matter-of-fact  coldness  made  Helen 
shiver. 

"Why,  the  leaves  have  already  begun  to  fall.  Papa  told  me 
Brandt  had  gone  to  join  the  most  powerful  outlaw  band  on  the 
border.  How  can  these  two  men,  alone,  cope  with  savages,  as 
I've  heard  they  do,  and  break  up  such  an  outlaw  band  as  Leg- 
get's?" 

"That's  a  question  I've  heard  Daniel  Boone  ask  about  Wetzel, 
and  Boone,  though  not  a  borderman  in  all  the  name  implies,  was 
a  great  Indian  fighter.  I've  heard  old  frontiersmen,  grown  griz- 
zled on  the  frontier,  use  the  same  words.  I've  been  twenty  years 
with  that  man,  yet  I  can't  answer  it.  Jonathan,  of  course,  is  only 
a  shadow  of  him;  Wetzel  is  the  type  of  these  men  who  have  held 
the  frontier  for  us.  He  was  the  first  borderman,  and  no  doubt 
he'll  be  the  last " 

"What  have  Jonathan  and  Wetzel  that  other  men  do  not  pos- 
sess?" 

"In  them  is  united  a  marvelously  developed  woodcraft,  with 
wonderful  physical  powers.  Imagine  a  man  having  a  sense, 
almost  an  animal  instinct,  for  what  is  going  on  in  the  woods. 
Take  for  instance  the  fleetncss  of  foot.  That  is  one  of  the  greatest 


148  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

factors.  It  is  absolutely  necessary  to  run,  to  get  away  when  to 
hold  ground  would  be  death.  Whether  at  home  or  in  the  woods, 
the  bordermen  retreat  every  day.  You  wouldn't  think  they  prac- 
ticed anything  of  the  kind,  would  you?  Well,  a  man  can't  be 
great  in  anything  without  keeping  at  it.  Jonathan  says  he  exer- 
cises to  keep  his  feet  light.  Wetzel  would  just  as  soon  run  as 
walk.  Think  of  the  magnificent  condition  of  these  men.  When 
a  dash  of  speed  is  called  for,  when  to  be  fleet  of  foot  is  to  elude 
vengeance-seeking  Indians,  they  must  travel  as  swiftly  as  the  deer. 
The  Zanes  were  all  sprinters.  I  could  do  something  of  the  kind; 
Betty  was  fast  on  her  feet,  as  that  old  fort  will  testify  until  the 
logs  rot;  Isaac  was  fleet,  too,  and  Jonathan  can  get  over  the 
ground  like  a  scared  buck.  But,  even  so,  Wetzel  can  beat  him." 

"Goodness  me,  Helen!"  exclaimed  the  colonel's  buxom  wife, 
from  the  window,  "don't  you  ever  get  tired  hearing  Eb  talk  of 
Wetzel,  and  Jack,  and  Indians?  Come  in  with  me.  I  venture  to 
say  my  gossip  will  do  you  more  good  than  his  stories." 

Therefore  Helen  went  in  to  chat  with  Mrs.  Zane,  for  she  was 
always  glad  to  listen  to  the  colonel's  wife,  who  was  so  bright 
and  pleasant,  so  helpful  and  kindly  in  her  womanly  way.  In  the 
course  of  their  conversation,  which  drifted  from  weaving  linsey, 
Mrs.  Zane's  occupation  at  the  time,  to  the  costly  silks  and  satins 
of  remembered  days,  and  then  to  matters  of  more  present  inter- 
est, Helen  spoke  of  Colonel  Zane's  hint  about  Will  and  Betty. 

"Isn't  Eb  a  terror?  He's  the  worst  matchmatcher  you  ever 
saw,"  declared  the  colonel's  good  spouse. 

"There's  no  harm  in  that." 

"No,  indeed;  it's  a  good  thing,  but  he  makes  me  laugh,  and 
Betty,  he  sets  her  furious." 

"The  colonel  said  he  had  designs  on  me." 

"Of  course  he  has,  dear  old  Eb!  How  he'd  love  to  see  you 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  149 

happily  married.  His  heart  is  as  big  as  that  mountain  yonder.  He 
has  given  this  settlement  his  whole  life." 

"I  believe  you.  He  has  such  interest,  such  zeal  for  everybody. 
Only  the  other  day  he  was  speaking  to  me  of  Mr.  Mordaunt,  tell- 
ing how  sorry  he  was  for  the  Englishman,  and  how  much  he'd 
like  to  help  him.  It  does  seem  a  pity  a  man  of  Mordaunt's  blood 
and  attainments  should  sink  to  utter  worthlessness." 

"Yes,  'tis  a  pity  for  any  man,  blood  or  no,  and  the  world's  full 
of  such  wrecks.  I  always  liked  that  man's  looks.  I  never  had  a 
word  with  him,  of  course;  but  I've  seen  him  often,  and  some- 
thing about  him  appealed  to  me.  I  don't  believe  it  was  just  his 
handsome  face;  still  I  know  women  are  susceptible  that  way." 

"I,  too,  liked  him  once  as  a  friend,"  said  Helen  feelingly.  "Well, 
I'm  glad  he's  gone." 

"Gone?" 

"Yes,  he  left  Fort  Henry  yesterday.  He  came  to  say  good-bye 
to  me,  and,  except  for  his  pale  face  and  trembling  hands,  was 
much  as  he  used  to  be  in  Virginia.  Said  he  was  going  home  to 
England,  and  wanted  to  tell  me  he  was  sorry— for— for  all  he'd 
done  to  make  papa  and  me  suffer.  Drink  had  broken  him,  he 
said,  and  surely  he  looked  a  broken  man.  I  shook  hands  with  him, 
and  then  slipped  upstairs  and  cried." 

"Poor  fellow!"  sighed  Mrs.  Zane. 

"Papa  said  he  left  Fort  Pitt  with  one  of  Metzar's  men  as  a 
guide." 

"Then  he  didn't  take  the  little  cuss,'  as  Eb  calls  his  man 
Case?" 

"No,  if  I  remember  rightly  papa  said  Case  wouldn't  go." 

"I  wish  he  had.  He's  no  addition  to  our  village." 

Voices  outside  attracted  their  attention.  Mrs.  Zane  glanced 
from  the  window  and  said :  "There  come  Betty  and  Will." 


150  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

Helen  went  on  the  porch  to  see  her  cousin  and  Betty  entering 
the  yard,  and  Colonel  Zane  once  again  leaning  on  his  spade. 

"Gather  any  hickory-nuts  from  birch  or  any  other  kind  of 
trees?"  asked  the  colonel  grimly. 

"No,"  replied  Will  cheerily,  "the  shells  haven't  opened  yet." 

"Too  bad  the  frost  is  so  backward,"  said  Colonel  Zane  with 
a  laugh.  "But  I  can't  see  that  it  makes  any  difference." 

"Where  are  my  leaves?"  asked  Helen,  with  a  smile  and  a  nod 
to  Betty. 

"What  leaves?"  inquired  that  young  woman,  plainly  mystified. 

"Why,  the  autumn  leaves  Will  promised  to  gather  with  me, 
then  changed  his  mind,  and  said  he'd  bring  them." 

"I  forgot,"  Will  replied  a  little  awkwardly. 

Colonel  Zane  coughed,  and  then,  catching  Betty's  glance,  which 
had  begun  to  flash,  he  plied  his  spade  vigorously. 

Betty's  face  had  colored  warmly  at  her  brother's  first  question; 
it  toned  down  slightly  when  she  understood  that  he  was  not 
going  to  tease  her  as  usual,  and  suddenly,  as  she  looked  over  his 
head,  it  paled  white  as  snow. 

"Eb,  look  down  the  lane!"  she  cried. 

Two  tall  men  were  approaching  with  labored  tread,  one  half- 
supporting  his  companion. 

"Wetzel!  Jack!  and  Jack's  hurt!"  cried  Betty. 

"My  dear,  be  calm,"  said  Colonel  Zane,  in  that  quiet  tone  he 
always  used  during  moments  of  excitement.  He  turned  toward 
the  bordermen,  and  helped  Wetzel  lead  Jonathan  up  the  walk 
into  the  yard. 

From  Wetzel's  clothing  water  ran,  his  long  hair  was  disheveled, 
his  aspect  frightful.  Jonathan's  face  was  white  and  drawn.  His 
buckskin  hunting  coat  was  covered  with  blood,  and  the  hand 
which  he  held  tightly  against  his  left  breast  showed  dark  red 
stains. 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  15! 

Helen  shuddered.  Almost  fainting,  she  leaned  against  the 
porch,  too  horrified  to  cry  out,  with  contracting  heart  and  a  chill 
stealing  through  her  veins. 

"Jack!  Jack!"  cried  Betty,  in  agonized  appeal. 

"Betty,  it's  nothin',"  said  Wetzel. 

"Now,  Betts,  don't  be  scared  of  a  little  blood,"  Jonathan  said 
with  a  faint  smile  flitting  across  his  haggard  face. 

"Bring  water,  shears  an'  some  linsey  cloth,"  added  Wetzel,  as 
Mrs.  Zane  came  running  out. 

"Come  inside,"  cried  the  colonel's  wife,  as  she  disappeared 
again  immediately. 

"No,"  replied  the  borderman,  removing  his  coat,  and,  with  the 
assistance  of  his  brother,  he  unlaced  his  hunting  shirt,  pulling  it 
down  from  a  wounded  shoulder.  A  great  gory  hole  gaped  just 
beneath  his  left  collar-bone. 

Although  stricken  with  fear,  when  Helen  saw  the  bronzed, 
massive  shoulder,  the  long,  powerful  arm  with  its  cords  of 
muscles  playing  under  the  brown  skin,  she  felt  a  thrill  of  admira- 
tion. 

"Just  missed  the  lung,"  said  Mrs.  Zane.  "Eb,  no  bullet  ever 
made  that  hole." 

Wetzel  washed  the  bloody  wound,  and,  placing  on  it  a  wad 
of  leaves  he  took  from  his  pocket,  bound  up  the  shoulder  tightly. 

"What  made  that  hole?"  asked  Colonel  Zane. 

Wetzel  lifted  the  quiver  of  arrows  Jonathan  had  laid  on  the 
porch,  and,  selecting  one,  handed  it  to  the  colonel.  The  flint-head 
and  a  portion  of  the  shaft  were  stained  with  blood. 

"The  Shawnee!"  exclaimed  Colonel  Zane.  Then  he  led  Wetzel 
aside,  and  began  conversing  in  low  tones  while  Jonathan,  with 
Betty  holding  his  arm,  ascended  the  steps  and  went  within  the 
dwelling. 


152  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

Helen  ran  home,  and,  once  in  her  room,  gave  vent  to  her  emo- 
tions. She  cried  because  of  fright,  nervousness,  relief,  and  joy. 
Then  she  bathed  her  face,  tried  to  rub  some  color  into  her  pale 
cheeks,  and  set  about  getting  dinner  as  one  in  a  trance.  She 
could  not  forget  that  broad  shoulder  with  its  frightful  wound. 
What  a  man  Jonathan  must  be  to  receive  a  blow  like  that  and 
live!  Exhausted,  almost  spent,  had  been  his  strength  when  he 
reached  home,  yet  how  calm  and  cool  he  was!  What  would  she 
not  have  given  for  the  faint  smile  that  shone  in  his  eyes  for 
Betty? 

The  afternoon  was  long  for  Helen.  When  at  last  supper  was 
over  she  changed  her  gown,  and,  asking  Will  to  accompany  her, 
went  down  the  lane  toward  Colonel  Zane's  cabin.  At  this  hour 
the  colonel  almost  invariably  could  be  found  sitting  on  his  door- 
step puffing  a  long  Indian  pipe,  and  gazing  with  dreamy  eyes 
over  the  valley. 

"Well,  well,  how  sweet  you  look!"  he  said  to  Helen;  then  with 
a  wink  of  his  eyelid,  "Hello,  Willie,  you'll  find  Elizabeth  inside 
with  Jack." 

"How  is  he?"  asked  Helen  eagerly,  as  Will  with  a  laugh  and 
a  retort  mounted  the  steps. 

"Jack's  doing  splendidly.  He  slept  all  day.  I  don't  think  his 
injury  amounts  to  much,  at  least  not  for  such  as  him  or  Wetzel. 
It  would  have  finished  ordinary  men.  Bess  says  if  complications 
don't  set  in,  blood-poison  or  something  to  start  a  fever,  he'll  be 
up  shortly.  Wetzel  believes  the  two  of  'em  will  be  on  the  trail 
inside  of  a  week." 

"Did  they  find  Brandt?"  asked  Helen  in  a  low  voice. 

"Yes,  they  ran  him  to  his  hole,  and,  as  might  have  been  ex- 
pected, it  was  Bing  Legget's  camp.  The  Indians  took  Jonathan 
there." 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  153 

"Then  Jack  was  captured?" 

Colonel  Zane  related  the  events,  as  told  briefly  by  Wetzel,  that 
had  taken  place  during  the  preceding  three  days. 

"The  Indian  I  saw  at  the  spring  carried  that  bow  Jonathan 
brought  back.  He  must  have  shot  the  arrow.  He  was  a  magnifi- 
cent savage." 

"He  was  indeed  a  great,  and  a  bad  Indian,  one  of  the  craftiest 
spies  who  ever  stepped  in  moccasins;  but  he  lies  quiet  now  on 
the  moss  and  the  leaves.  Bing  Legget  will  never  find  another 
runner  like  that  Shawnee.  Let  us  go  indoors." 

He  led  Helen  into  the  large  sitting-room  where  Jonathan  lay 
on  a  couch,  with  Betty  and  Will  sitting  beside  him.  The  colonel's 
wife  and  children,  Silas  Zane,  and  several  neighbors,  were  pres- 
ent. 

"Here,  Jack,  is  a  lady  inquiring  after  your  health.  Betts,  this 
reminds  me  of  the  time  Isaac  came  home  wounded,  after  his 
escape  from  the  Hurons.  Strikes  me  he  and  his  Indian  bride 
should  be  about  due  here  on  a  visit." 

Helen  forgot  every  one  except  the  wounded  man  lying  so  quiet 
and  pale  upon  the  couch.  She  looked  down  upon  him  with  eyes 
strangely  dilated,  and  darkly  bright. 

"How  are  you?"  she  asked  softly. 

"I'm  all  right,  thank  you,  lass,"  answered  Jonathan. 

Colonel  Zane  contrived,  with  inimitable  skill,  to  get  Betty, 
Will,  Silas,  Bessie  and  the  others  interested  in  some  remarkable 
news  he  had  just  heard,  or  made  up,  and  this  left  Jonathan  and 
Helen  comparatively  alone  for  the  moment. 

The  wise  old  colonel  thought  perhaps  this  might  be  the  right 
time.  He  saw  Helen's  face  as  she  leaned  over  Jonathan,  and  that 
was  enough  for  him.  He  would  have  taxed  his  ingenuity  to  the 
utmost  to  keep  the  others  away  from  the  young  couple. 


154  THE  LAST 

"I  was  so  frightened,"  murmured  Helen. 

"Why?"  asked  Jonathan. 

"Oh!  You  looked  so  deathly — the  blood,  and  that  awful 
wound!" 

"It's  nothin',  lass." 

Helen  smiled  down  upon  him.  Whether  or  no  the  hurt 
amounted  to  anything  in  the  borderman's  opinion,  she  knew 
from  his  weakness,  and  his  white,  drawn  face,  that  the  strain  of 
the  march  home  had  been  fearful.  His  dark  eyes  held  now  noth- 
ing of  the  coldness  and  glitter  so  natural  to  them.  They  were 
weary,  almost  sad.  She  did  not  feel  afraid  of  him  now.  He  lay 
there  so  helpless,  his  long,  powerful  frame  as  quiet  as  a  sleeping 
child's!  Hitherto  an  almost  indefinable  antagonism  in  him  had 
made  itself  felt;  now  there  was  only  gentleness,  as  of  a  man  too 
weary  to  fight  longer.  Helen's  heart  swelled  with  pity,  and  ten- 
derness, and  love.  His  weakness  affected  her  as  had  never  his 
strength.  With  an  involuntary  gesture  of  sympathy  she  placed 
her  hand  softly  on  his. 

Jonathan  looked  up  at  her  with  eyes  no  longer  blind.  Pain  had 
softened  him.  For  the  moment  he  felt  carried  out  of  himself,  as 
it  were,  and  saw  things  differently.  The  melting  tenderness  of 
her  gaze,  the  glowing  softness  of  her  face,  the  beauty,  bewitched 
him;  and  beyond  that,  a  sweet,  impelling  gladness  stirred  within 
him  and  would  not  be  denied.  He  thrilled  as  her  fingers  lightly, 
timidly  touched  his,  and  opened  his  broad  hand  to  press  hers 
closely  and  warmly. 

"Lass,"  he  whispered,  with  a  huskiness  and  unsteadiness  un- 
natural to  his  deep  voice. 

Helen  bent  her  head  closer  to  him;  she  saw  his  lips  tremble, 
and  his  nostrils  dilate;  but  an  unutterable  sadness  shaded  the 
brightness  in  his  eyes. 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  155 

"I  love  you." 

The  low  whisper  reached  Helen's  ears.  She  seemed  to  float 
dreamily  away  to  some  beautiful  world,  with  the  music  of  those 
words  ringing  in  her  ears.  She  looked  at  him  again.  Had  she  been 
dreaming?  No;  his  dark  eyes  met  hers  with  a  love  that  he  could 
no  longer  deny.  An  exquisite  emotion,  keen,  strangely  sweet 
and  strong,  yet  terrible  with  sharp  pain,  pulsated  through  her 
being.  The  revelation  had  been  too  abrupt.  It  was  so  wonderfully 
different  from  what  she  had  ever  dared  hope.  She  lowered  her 
head,  trembling. 

The  next  moment  she  felt  Colonel  Zane's  hand  on  her  chair, 
and  heard  him  say  in  a  cheery  voice: 

"Well,  well,  see  here,  lass,  you  mustn't  make  Jack  talk  too 
much.  See  how  white  and  tired  he  looks." 


CHAPTER  XV 


IN  FORTY-EIGHT  hours  Jonathan  Zane  was  up  and  about  the  cabin 
as  though  he  had  never  been  wounded;  the  third  day  he  walked 
to  the  spring;  in  a  week  he  was  waiting  for  Wetzel,  ready  to  go 
on  the  trail. 

On  the  eighth  day  of  his  enforced  idleness,  as  he  sat  with  Betty 
and  the  colonel  in  the  yard,  Wetzel  appeared  on  a  ridge  east  of 
the  fort.  Soon  he  rounded  the  stockade  fence,  and  came  straight 
toward  them.  To  Colonel  Zane  and  Betty,  Wetzel's  expression 
was  terrible.  The  stern  kindliness,  the  calm,  though  cold,  gravity 
of  his  countenance,  as  they  usually  saw  it,  had  disappeared.  Yet 
it  showed  no  trace  of  his  unnatural  passion  to  pursue  and  slay. 


156  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

No  doubt  that  terrible  instinct,  or  lust,  was  at  white  heat;  but  it 
wore  a  mask  of  impenetrable  stone-gray  gloom. 

Wetzel  spoke  briefly.  After  telling  Jonathan  to  meet  him  at 
sunset  on  the  following  day  at  a  point  five  miles  up  the  river,  he 
reported  to  the  colonel  that  Legget  with  his  band  had  left  their 
retreat,  moving  southward,  apparently  on  a  marauding  expedi- 
tion. Then  he  shook  hands  with  Colonel  Zane  and  turned  to 
Betty. 

"Good-bye,  Betty,"  he  said,  in  his  deep,  sonorous  voice. 

"Good-bye,  Lew,"  answered  Betty  slowly,  as  if  surprised.  "God 
save  you,"  she  added. 

He  shouldered  his  rifle,  and  hurried  down  the  lane,  halting 
before  entering  the  thicket  that  bounded  the  clearing,  to  look 
back  at  the  settlement.  In  another  moment  his  dark  figure  had 
disappeared  among  the  bushes. 

"Betts,  I've  seen  Wetzel  go  like  that  hundreds  of  times,  though 
he  never  shook  hands  before;  but  I  feel  sort  of  queer  about  it 
now.  Wasn't  he  strange?" 

Betty  did  not  answer  until  Jonathan,  who  had  started  to  go 
within,  was  out  of  hearing. 

"Lew  looked  and  acted  the  same  the  morning  he  struck  Mill- 
er's trail,"  Betty  replied  in  a  low  voice.  "I  believe,  despite  his 
indifference  to  danger,  he  realizes  that  the  chances  are  greatly 
against  him,  as  they  were  when  he  began  the  trailing  of  Miller, 
certain  it  would  lead  him  into  Girty's  camp.  Then  I  know  Lew 
has  an  affection  for  us,  though  it  is  never  shown  in  ordinary 
ways.  I  pray  he  and  Jack  will  come  home  safe." 

"This  is  a  bad  trail  they're  taking  up;  the  worst,  perhaps,  in 
border  warfare,"  said  Colonel  Zane  gloomily.  "Did  you  notice 
how  Jack's  face  darkened  when  his  comrade  came?  Much  of  this 
borderman-life  of  his  is  due  to  Wetzel's  influence." 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  157 

"Eb,  I'll  tell  you  one  thing,"  returned  Betty,  with  a  flash  of  her 
old  spirit.  "This  is  Jack's  last  trail." 

"Why  do  you  think  so?" 

"If  he  doesn't  return  he'll  be  gone  the  way  of  all  bordermen; 
but  if  he  comes  back  once  more  he'll  never  get  away  from 
Helen." 

"Ugh!"  exclaimed  Zane,  venting  his  pleasure  in  characteristic 
Indian  way. 

"That  night  after  Jack  came  home  wounded,"  continued  Betty, 
"I  saw  him,  as  he  lay  on  the  couch,  gaze  at  Helen.  Such  a  look! 
Eb,  she  has  won." 

"I  hope  so,  but  I  fear,  I  fear,"  replied  her  brother  gloomily. 
"If  only  he  returns,  that's  the  thing!  Betts,  be  sure  he  sees  Helen 
before  he  goes  away." 

"I  shall  try.  Here  he  comes  now,"  said  Betty. 

"Hello,  Jack!"  cried  the  colonel,  as  his  brother  came  out  in 
somewhat  of  a  hurry.  "What  have  you  got?  By  George!  It's  that 
blamed  arrow  the  Shawnee  shot  into  you.  Where  are  you  going 
with  it?  What  the  deuce — Say — Betts,  eh?" 

Betty  had  given  him  a  sharp  little  kick. 

The  borderman  looked  embarrassed.  He  hesitated  and  flushed. 
Evidently  he  would  have  liked  to  avoid  his  brother's  question; 
but  the  inquiry  came  direct.  Dissimulation  with  him  was  impos- 
sible. 

"Helen  wanted  this,  an'  I  reckon  that's  where  I'm  goin*  with 
it,"  he  said  finally,  and  walked  away. 

"Eb,  you're  a  stupid!"  exclaimed  Betty. 

"Hang  it!  Who'd  have  thought  he  was  going  to  give  her  that 
blamed,  bloody  arrow?" 


158  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

As  Helen  ushered  Jonathan,  for  the  first  time,  into  her  cosy 
little  sitting-room,  her  heart  began  to  thump  so  hard  she  could 
hear  it. 

She  had  not  seen  him  since  the  night  he  whispered  the  words 
which  gave  such  happiness.  She  had  stayed  at  home,  thankful 
beyond  expression  to  learn  every  day  of  his  rapid  improvement, 
living  in  the  sweetness  of  her  joy,  and  waiting  for  him.  And 
now  as  he  had  come,  so  dark,  so  grave,  so  unlike  a  lover  to  woo, 
that  she  felt  a  chill  steal  over  her. 

"I'm  so  glad  you've  brought  the  arrow,"  she  faltered,  "for,  of 
course,  coming  so  far  means  that  you're  well  once  more." 

"You  asked  me  for  it,  an'  I've  fetched  it  over.  To-morrow  I'm 
off  on  a  trail  I  may  never  return  from,"  he  answered  simply,  and 
his  voice  seemed  cold. 

An  immeasurable  distance  stretched  once  more  between  them. 
Helen's  happiness  slowly  died. 

"I  thank  you,"  she  said  with  a  voice  that  was  tremulous  despite 
all  her  efforts. 

"It's  not  much  of  a  keepsake." 

"I  did  not  ask  for  it  as  a  keepsake,  but  because— because  I 
wanted  it.  I  need  nothing  tangible  to  keep  alive  my  memory.  A 
few  words  whispered  to  me  not  many  days  ago  will  suffice  for 
remembrance — or — or  did  I  dream  them?" 

Bitter  disappointment  almost  choked  Helen.  This  was  not  the 
gentle,  soft-voiced  man  who  had  said  he  loved  her.  It  was  the 
indifferent  borderman.  Again  he  was  the  embodiment  of  his 
strange,  quiet  woods.  Once  more  he  seemed  the  comrade  of  the 
cold,  inscrutable  Wetzel. 

"No,  lass,  I  reckon  you  didn't  dream,"  he  replied. 

Helen  swayed  from  sick  bitterness  and  a  suffocating  sense  of 
pain,  back  to  her  old,  sweet,  joyous,  tumultuous  heart-throbbing. 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  159 

"Tell  me,  if  I  didn't  dream,"  she  said  softly,  her  face  flashing 
warm  again.  She  came  close  to  him  and  looked  up  with  all  her 
heart  in  her  great  dark  eyes,  and  love  trembling  on  her  red  lips. 

Calmness  deserted  the  borderman  after  one  glance  at  her.  He 
paced  the  floor;  twisted  and  clasped  his  hands  while  his  eyes 
gleamed. 

"Lass,  I'm  only  human,"  he  cried  hoarsely,  facing  her  again. 

But  only  for  a  moment  did  he  stand  before  her;  but  it  was 
long  enough  for  him  to  see  her  shrink  a  little,  the  gladness  in  her 
eyes  giving  way  to  uncertainty  and  a  fugitive  hope.  Suddenly  he 
began  to  pace  the  room  again,  and  to  talk  incoherently.  With 
the  flow  of  words  he  gradually  grew  calmer,  and,  with  something 
of  his  natural  dignity,  spoke  more  rationally. 

"I  said  I  loved  you,  an'  it's  true,  but  I  didn't  mean  to  speak. 
I  oughtn't  have  done  it.  Somethin'  made  it  so  easy,  so  natural 
like.  I'd  have  died  before  letting  you  know,  if  any  idea  had  come 
to  me  of  what  I  was  sayin'.  I've  fought  this  feelin'  for  months.  I 
allowed  myself  to  think  of  you  at  first,  an'  there's  the  wrong. 
I  went  on  the  trail  with  your  big  eyes  pictured  in  my  mind,  an' 
before  I'd  dreamed  of  it  you'd  crept  into  my  heart.  Life  has 
never  been  the  same  since — that  kiss.  Betty  said  as  how  you  cared 
for  me,  an'  that  made  me  worse,  only  I  never  really  believed.  To- 
day I  came  over  here  to  say  good-bye,  expectin'  to  hold  myself 
well  in  hand;  but  the  first  glance  of  your  eyes  unmans  me. 
Nothin'  can  come  of  it,  lass,  nothin'  but  trouble.  Even  if  you 
cared,  an'  I  don't  dare  believe  you  do,  nothin'  can  come  of  it! 
I've  my  own  life  to  live,  an'  there's  no  sweetheart  in  it.  Mebbe, 
as  Lew  says,  there's  one  in  Heaven.  Oh!  girl,  this  has  been  hard 
on  me.  I  see  you  always  on  my  lonely  tramps;  I  see  your  glorious 
eyes  in  the  sunny  fields  an'  in  the  woods,  at  gray  twilight,  an' 
when  the  stars  shine  brightest.  They  haunt  me.  Ah!  you're  the 


l6o  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

sweetest  lass  as  ever  tormented  a  man,  an'  I  love  you,  I  love 
you!" 

He  turned  to  the  window  only  to  hear  a  soft,  broken  cry,  and 
a  flurry  of  skirts.  A  rush  of  wind  seemed  to  envelop  him.  Then 
two  soft,  rounded  arms  encircled  his  neck,  and  a  golden  head 
lay  on  his  breast. 

"My  borderman!  My  hero!  My  love!" 

Jonathan  clasped  the  beautiful,  quivering  girl  to  his  heart. 

"Lass,  for  God's  sake  don't  say  you  love  me,"  he  implored, 
thrilling  with  contact  of  her  warm  arms. 

"Ah!"  she  breathed,  and  raised  her  head.  Her  radiant  eyes 
darkly  wonderful  with  unutterable  love,  burned  into  his. 

He  had  almost  pressed  his  lips  to  the  sweet  red  ones  so  near 
his,  when  he  drew  back  with  a  start,  and  his  frame  straightened. 

"Am  I  a  man,  or  only  a  coward?"  he  muttered.  "Lass,  let  me 
think.  Don't  believe  I'm  harsh,  nor  cold,  nor  nothin'  except  that 
I  want  to  do  what's  right." 

He  leaned  out  of  the  window  while  Helen  stood  near  him 
with  a  hand  on  his  quivering  shoulder.  When  at  last  he  turned, 
his  face  was  colorless,  white  as  marble,  and  sad,  and  set,  and 
stern. 

"Lass,  it  mustn't  be;  I'll  not  ruin  your  life." 

"But  you  will  if  you  give  me  up." 

"No,  no,  lass." 

"I  cannot  live  without  you." 

"You  must.  My  life  is  not  mine  to  give." 

"But  you  love  me." 

"I  am  a  borderman." 

"I  will  not  live  without  you." 

"Hush!  lass,  hush!" 

"I  love  you." 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  l6l 

Jonathan  breathed  hard;  once  more  the  tremor,  which  seemed 
pitiful  in  such  a  strong  man,  came  upon  him.  His  face  was  gray. 

"I  love  you,"  she  repeated,  her  rich  voice  indescribably  deep 
and  full.  She  opened  wide  her  arms  and  stood  before  him  with 
heaving  bosom,  with  great  eyes  dark  with  woman's  sadness,  pas- 
sionate with  woman's  promise,  perfect  in  her  beauty,  glorious  in 
her  abandonment. 

The  borderman  bowed  and  bent  like  a  broken  reed. 

"Listen,"  she  whispered,  coming  closer  to  him,  "go  if  you  must 
leave  me;  but  let  this  be  your  last  trail.  Come  back  to  me,  Jack, 
come  back  to  me!  You  have  had  enough  of  this  terrible  life;  you 
have  won  a  name  that  will  never  be  forgotten;  you  have  done 
your  duty  to  the  border.  The  Indians  and  outlaws  will  be  gone 
soon.  Take  the  farm  your  brother  wants  you  to  have,  and  live  for 
me.  We  will  be  happy.  I  shall  learn  to  keep  your  home.  Oh!  my 
dear,  I  will  recompense  you  for  the  loss  of  all  this  wild  hunting 
and  fighting.  Let  me  persuade  you,  as  much  for  your  sake  as  for 
mine,  for  you  are  my  heart,  and  soul,  and  life.  Go  out  upon  your 
last  trail,  Jack,  and  come  back  to  me." 

"An"  let  Wetzel  go  always  alone?" 

"He  is  different;  he  lives  only  for  revenge.  What  are  those 
poor  savages  to  you?  You  have  a  better,  nobler  life  opening." 

"Lass,  I  can't  give  him  up." 

"You  need  not;  but  give  up  this  useless  seeking  of  adventure. 
That,  you  know,  is  half  a  borderman's  life.  Give  it  up,  Jack,  if 
not  for  your  own,  then  for  my  sake." 

"No — no — never — I  can't — I  won't  be  a  coward!  After  all  these 
years  I  won't  desert  him.  No — no " 

"Do  not  say  more,"  she  pleaded,  stealing  closer  to  him  until 
she  was  against  his  breast.  She  slipped  her  arms  around  his  neck. 
For  love  and  more  than  life  she  was  fighting  now.  "Good-bye,  my 


l62  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

love."  She  kissed  him,  a  long,  lingering  pressure  of  her  soft  full 
lips  on  his.  "Dearest,  do  not  shame  me  further.  Dearest  Jack, 
come  back  to  me,  for  I  love  you." 

She  released  him,  and  ran  sobbing  from  the  room. 

Unsteady  as  a  blind  man,  he  groped  for  the  door,  found  it,  and 
went  out. 


CHAPTER  XVI 


THE  longest  day  in  Jonathan  Zane's  life,  the  oddest,  the  most 
terrible  and  complex  with  unintelligible  emotions,  was  that  one 
in  which  he  learned  that  the  wilderness  no  longer  sufficed  for 
him. 

He  wandered  through  the  forest  like  a  man  lost,  searching  for, 
he  knew  not  what.  Rambling  along  the  shady  trails  he  looked 
for  that  contentment  which  had  always  been  his,  but  found  it 
not.  He  plunged  into  the  depths  of  deep,  gloomy  ravines;  into 
the  fastnesses  of  heavy-timbered  hollows  where  the  trees  hid  the 
light  of  day;  he  sought  the  open,  grassy  hillsides,  and  roamed  far 
over  meadow  and  plain.  Yet  something  always  eluded  him.  The 
invisible  and  beautiful  life  of  all  inanimate  things  sang  no  more 
in  his  heart.  The  springy  moss,  the  quivering  leaf,  the  tell-tale 
bark  of  the  trees,  the  limpid,  misty,  eddying  pools  under  green 
banks,  the  myriads  of  natural  objects  from  which  he  had  learned 
so  much,  and  the  manifold  joyous  life  around  him,  no  longer 
spoke  with  soul-satisfying  faithfulness.  The  environment  of  his 
boyish  days,  of  his  youth,  and  manhood,  rendered  not  a  sweetness 
as  of  old. 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  163 

His  intelligence,  sharpened  by  the  pain  of  new  experience,  told 
him  he  had  been  vain  to  imagine  that  he,  because  he  was  a 
borderman,  could,  escape  the  universal  destiny  of  human  life. 
Dimly  he  could  feel  the  broadening,  the  awakening  into  a  fuller 
existence,  but  he  did  not  welcome  this  new  light.  He  realized 
that  men  had  always  turned,  at  some  time  in  their  lives,  to 
women  even  as  the  cypress  leans  toward  the  sun.  This  weaken- 
ing of  the  sterner  stuff  in  him;  this  softening  of  his  heart,  and 
especially  the  inquietude,  and  lack  of  joy  and  harmony  in  his  old 
pursuits  of  the  forest  trails  bewildered  him,  and  troubled  him 
some.  Thousands  of  times  his  borderman's  trail  had  been  crossed, 
yet  never  to  his  sorrow  until  now  when  it  had  been  crossed  by  a 
woman. 

Sick  at  heart,  hurt  in  his  pride,  darkly  savage,  sad,  remorseful, 
and  thrilling  with  awakened  passion,  all  in  turn,  he  roamed  the 
woodland  unconsciously  visiting  the  scenes  where  he  had  for- 
merly found  contentment. 

He  paused  by  many  a  shady  glen,  and  beautiful  quiet  glade; 
by  gray  cliffs  and  mossy  banks,  searching  with  moody  eyes  for 
the  spirit  which  evaded  him. 

Here  in  the  green  and  golden  woods  rose  before  him  a  rugged, 
giant  rock,  moss-stained,  and  gleaming  with  trickling  water.  Tan- 
gled ferns  dressed  in  autumn's  russet  hue  lay  at  the  base  of  the 
green-gray  cliff,  and  circled  a  dark,  deep  pool  dotted  with  yellow 
leaves.  Half-way  up,  the  perpendicular  ascent  was  broken  by  a 
protruding  ledge  upon  which  waved  broad-leaved  plants  and 
rusty  ferns.  Above,  the  cliff  sheered  out  with  many  cracks  and 
.earns  in  its  weather-beaten  front. 

The  forest  grew  to  the  verge  of  the  precipice.  A  full  foliaged 
oak  and  a  luxuriant  maple,  the  former  still  fresh  with  its  dark 
green  leaves,  the  latter  making  a  vivid  contrast  with  its  pale  yel- 


164  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

low,  purple-red,  and  orange  hues,  leaned  far  out  over  the  bluff. 
A  mighty  chestnut  grasped  with  gnarled  roots  deep  into  the 
broken  cliff.  Dainty  plumes  of  goldenrod  swayed  on  the  brink; 
red  berries,  amber  moss,  and  green  trailing  vines  peeped  over  the 
edge,  and  every  little  niche  and  cranny  sported  fragile  ferns  and 
pale-faced  asters.  A  second  cliff,  higher  than  the  first,  and  more 
heavily  wooded,  loomed  above,  and  over  it  sprayed  a  transparent 
film  of  water,  thin  as  smoke,  and  iridescent  in  the  sunshine.  Far 
above  where  the  glancing  rill  caressed  the  mossy  cliff  and  shone 
like  gleaming  gold  against  the  dark  branches  with  their  green 
and  red  and  purple  leaves,  lay  the  faint  blue  of  the  sky. 

Jonathan  pulled  on  down  the  stream  with  humbler  heart.  His 
favorite  waterfall  had  denied  him.  The  gold  that  had  gleamed 
there  was  his  sweetheart's  hair;  the  red  was  of  her  lips;  the  dark 
pool  with  its  lights  and  shades,  its  unfathomable  mystery,  was 
like  her  eyes. 

He  came  at  length  to  another  scene  of  milder  aspect.  An  open 
glade  where  the  dancing,  dimpling  brook  raced  under  dark 
hemlocks,  and  where  blood-red  sumach  leaves,  and  beech  leaves 
like  flashes  of  sunshine,  lay  against  the  green.  Under  a  leaning 
birch  he  found  a  patch  of  purple  asters,  and  a  little  apart  from 
them,  by  a  mossy  stone,  a  lonely  fringed  gentian.  Its  deep  color 
brought  to  him  the  dark  blue  eyes  that  haunted  him,  and  once 
again,  like  one  possessed  of  an  evil  spirit,  he  wandered  along  the 
merry  water-course. 

But  finally  pain  and  unrest  left  him.  When  he  surrendered  to 
his  love,  peace  returned.  Though  he  said  in  his  heart  that  Helen 
was  not  for  him,  he  felt  he  did  not  need  to  torture  himself  by 
fighting  against  resistless  power.  He  could  love  her  without 
being  a  coward.  He  would  take  up  his  life  where  it  had  been 
changed,  and  live  it,  carrying  this  bitter-sweet  burden  always. 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  165 

Memory,  now  that  he  admitted  himself  conquered,  made  a  toy 
of  him,  bringing  the  sweetness  of  fragrant  hair,  and  eloquent 
eyes,  and  clinging  arms,  and  dewy  lips.  A  thousand-fold  harder 
to  fight  than  pain  was  the  seductive  thought  that  he  had  but  to 
go  back  to  Helen  to  feel  again  the  charm  of  her  presence,  to  see 
the  grace  of  her  person,  to  hear  the  music  of  her  voice,  to  have 
again  her  lips  on  his. 

Jonathan  knew  then  that  his  trial  had  but  begun;  that  the  pain 
and  suffering  of  a  borderman's  broken  pride  and  conquered  spirit 
was  nothing;  that  to  steel  his  heart  against  the  joy,  the  sweet- 
ness, the  longing  of  love  was  everything. 

So  a  tumult  raged  within  his  heart.  No  bitterness,  nor  wretch- 
edness stabbed  him  as  before,  but  a  passionate  yearning,  born  of 
memory,  and  unquenchable  as  the  fires  of  the  sun,  burned  there. 

Helen's  reply  to  his  pale  excuses,  to  his  duty,  to  his  life,  was 
that  she  loved  him.  The  wonder  of  it  made  him  weak.  Was  not 
her  answer  enough?  "I  love  you!"  Three  words  only;  but  they 
changed  the  world.  A  beautiful  girl  loved  him,  she  had  kissed 
him,  and  his  life  could  never  again  be  the  same.  She  had  held  out 
her  arms  to  him — and  he,  cold,  churlish,  unfeeling  brute,  had  let 
her  shame  herself,  fighting  for  her  happiness,  for  the  joy  that  is 
a  woman's  divine  right.  He  had  been  blind;  he  had  not  under- 
stood the  significance  of  her  gracious  action;  he  had  never 
realized  until  too  late,  what  it  must  have  cost  her,  what  heart- 
burning shame  and  scorn  his  refusal  brought  upon  her.  If  she 
ever  looked  tenderly  at  him  again  with  her  great  eyes;  or  leaned 
toward  him  with  her  beautiful  arms  outstretched,  he  would  fall 
at  her  feet  and  throw  his  duty  to  the  winds,  swearing  his  love 
was  hers  always  and  his  life  forever. 

So  love  stormed  in  the  borderman's  heart. 

Slowly  the  melancholy  Indian-summer  day  waned  as  Jonathan 


l66  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

strode  out  of  the  woods  into  a  plain  beyond,  where  he  was  to 
meet  Wetzel  at  sunset.  A  smoky  haze  like  a  purple  cloud  lay 
upon  the  gently  waving  grass.  He  could  not  see  across  the  stretch 
of  prairie-land,  though  at  this  point  he  knew  it  was  hardly  a  mile 
wide.  With  the  trilling  of  the  grasshoppers  alone  disturbing  the 
serene  quiet  of  this  autumn  afternoon,  all  nature  seemed  in  har- 
mony with  the  declining  season.  He  stood  a  while,  his  thoughts 
becoming  the  calmer  for  the  silence  and  loneliness  of  this  breath- 
ing meadow. 

When  the  shadows  of  the  trees  began  to  lengthen,  and  to  steal 
far  out  over  the  yellow  grass,  he  knew  the  time  had  come,  and 
glided  out  upon  the  plain.  He  crossed  it,  and  sat  down  upon  a 
huge  stone  which  lay  with  one  shelving  end  overhanging  the 
river. 

Far  in  the  west  the  gold-red  sun,  too  fiery  for  his  direct  gaze, 
lost  the  brilliance  of  its  under  circle  behind  the  fringe  of  the 
wooded  hill.  Slowly  the  red  ball  sank.  When  the  last  bright 
gleam  had  vanished  in  the  dark  horizon  Jonathan  turned  to 
search  wood  and  plain.  Wetzel  was  to  meet  him  at  sunset.  Even 
as  his  first  glance  swept  around  a  light  step  sounded  behind  him. 
He  did  not  move,  for  that  step  was  familiar.  In  another  moment 
the  tall  form  of  Wetzel  stood  beside  him. 

"I'm  about  as  much  behind  as  you  was  ahead  of  time,"  said 
Wetzel.  "We'll  stay  here  fer  the  night,  an'  be  off  early  in  the 
mornin'." 

Under  the  shelving  side  of  the  rock,  and  in  the  shade  of  the 
thicket,  the  bordermen  built  a  little  fire  and  roasted  strips  of 
deer-meat.  Then,  purring  at  their  long  pipes  they  sat  for  a  long 
time  in  silence,  while  twilight  let  fall  a  dark,  gray  cloak  over 
river  and  plain. 

"Legget's  move  up  the  river  was  a  blind,  as  I  suspected,"  said 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  167 

Wetzel,  presently.  "He's  not  far  back  in  the  woods  from  here,  an4 
seems  to  be  waitin'  fer  somethin'  or  somebody.  Brandt  an'  seven 
redskins  are  with  him.  We'd  hev  a  good  chance  at  them  in  the 
mornin';  now  we've  got  'em  a  long  ways  from  their  camp,  so 
we'll  wait,  an'  see  what  deviltry  they're  up  to." 

"Mebbe  he's  waitin'  for  some  Injun  band,"  suggested  Jona- 
than. 

"Thar's  redskins  in  the  valley  an'  close  to  him;  but  I  reckon 
he's  barkin'  up  another  tree." 

"Suppose  we  run  into  some  of  these  Injuns?" 

"We'll  hev  to  take  what  comes,"  replied  Wetzel,  lying  down 
on  a  bed  of  leaves. 

When  darkness  enveloped  the  spot  Wetzel  lay  wrapped  in 
deep  slumber,  while  Jonathan  sat  against  the  rock,  watching  the 
last  flickerings  of  the  camp-fire. 


CHAPTER  XVII 


WILL  and  Helen  hurried  back  along  the  river  road.  Beguiled 
by  the  soft  beauty  of  the  autumn  morning  they  ventured  farther 
from  the  fort  than  ever  before,  and  had  been  suddenly  brought  to 
a  realization  of  the  fact  by  a  crackling  in  the  underbrush.  In- 
stantly their  minds  reverted  to  bears  and  panthers,  such  as  they 
had  heard  invested  the  thickets  round  the  settlement. 

"Oh!  Will!  I  saw  a  dark  form  stealing  along  in  the  woods  from 
tree  to  tree!"  exclaimed  Helen  in  a  startled  whisper. 

"So  did  I.  It  was  an  Indian,  or  I  never  saw  one.  Walk  faster. 
Once  round  the  bend  in  the  road  we'll  be  within  sight  of  the 


l68  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

fort;  then  we'll  run,"  replied  Will.  He  had  turned  pale,  but  main- 
tained his  composure. 

They  increased  their  speed,  and  had  almost  come  up  to  the 
curve  in  the  road,  marked  by  dense  undergrowth  on  both  sides, 
when  the  branches  in  the  thicket  swayed  violently,  a  sturdy  little 
man  armed  with  a  musket  appeared  from  among  them. 

"Avast!  Heave  to!"  he  commanded  in  a  low,  fierce  voice,  level- 
ing his  weapon.  "One  breeze  from  ye,  an'  I  let  sail  this  broad- 
side." 

"What  do  you  want?  We  have  no  valuables,"  said  Will,  speak- 
ing low. 

Helen  stared  at  the  little  man.  She  was  speechless  with  terror. 
It  flashed  into  her  mind  as  soon  as  she  recognized  the  red,  evil 
face  of  the  sailor,  that  he  was  the  accomplice  upon  whom  Brand* 
had  told  Metzar  he  could  rely. 

"Shut  up!  It's  not  ye  I  want,  nor  valuables,  but  this  wench," 
growled  Case.  He  pushed  Will  around  with  the  muzzle  of  the 
musket,  which  action  caused  the  young  man  to  turn  a  sickly 
white  and  shrink  involuntarily  with  fear.  The  hammer  of  the 
musket  was  raised,  and  might  fall  at  the  slightest  jar. 

"For  God's  sake!  Will,  do  as  he  says,"  cried  Helen,  who  saw 
murder  in  Case's  eyes.  Capture  or  anything  was  better  than 
sacrifice  of  life. 

"March!"  ordered  Case,  with  the  musket  against  Will's  back. 

Will  hurriedly  started  forward,  jostling  Helen,  who  had  pre- 
ceded him.  He  was  forced  to  hurry,  because  every  few  moments 
Case  pressed  the  gun  to  his  back  or  side. 

Without  another  word  the  sailor  marched  them  swiftly  along 
the  road,  which  now  narrowed  down  to  a  trail.  His  intention, 
no  doubt,  was  to  put  as  much  distance  between  him  and  the  fort 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  169 

as  was  possible.  No  more  than  a  mile  had  been  thus  traversed 
when  two  Indians  stepped  into  view. 

"My  God!  My  God!"  cried  Will  as  the  savages  proceeded  first 
to  bind  Helen's  arms  behind  her,  and  then  his  in  the  same  man- 
ner. After  this  the  journey  was  continued  in  silence,  the  Indians 
walking  beside  the  prisoners,  and  Case  in  the  rear. 

Helen  was  so  terrified  that  for  a  long  time  she  could  not  think 
coherently.  It  seemed  as  if  she  had  walked  miles,  yet  did  not  feel 
tired.  Always  in  front  wound  the  narrow,  leaf -girt  trail,  and  to 
the  left  the  broad  river  gleamed  at  intervals  through  open  spaces 
in  the  thickets.  Flocks  of  birds  rose  in  the  line  of  march.  They 
seemed  tame,  and  uttered  plaintive  notes  as  if  in  sympathy. 

About  noon  the  trail  led  to  the  river  bank.  One  of  the  savages 
disappeared  in  a  copse  of  willows,  rid  presently  reappeared 
carrying  a  birch-bark  canoe.  Case  ordered  Helen  and  V/ill  into 
the  boat,  got  in  himself,  and  the  savages,  taking  stations  at  bow 
and  stern,  paddled  out  into  the  stream,.  They  shot  over  under  the 
lee  of  an  island,  around  a  rocky  point,  and  across  a  strait  to 
another  island.  Beyond  this  they  gained  the  Ohio  shore,  and 
beached  the  canoe. 

"Ahoy!  there,  cap'n,"  cried  Case,  pushing  Helen  up  the  bank 
before  him,  and  she,  gazing  upward,  was  more  than  amazed  to 
see  Mordaunt  leaning  against  a  tree. 

"Mor daunt,  had  you  anything  to  do  with  this?"  cried  Helen 
breathlessly. 

"I  had  all  to  do  with  it,"  answered  the  Englishman. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

He  did  not  meet  her  gaze,  nor  make  reply;  but  turned  to 
address  a  few  words  in  a  low  tone  to  a  white  man  sitting  on  a 
log. 

Helen  knew  she  had  seen  this  person  before,  and  doubted  not 


170  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

he  was  one  of  Metzar's  men.  She  saw  a  rude,  bark  lean-to,  the 
remains  of  a  camp-fire,  and  a  pack  tied  in  blankets.  Evidently 
Mordaunt  and  his  men  had  tarried  here  awaiting  such  develop- 
ments as  had  come  to  pass. 

"You  white-faced  hound!"  hissed  Will,  beside  himself  with 
rage  when  he  realized  the  situation.  Bound  though  he  was,  he 
leaped  up  and  tried  to  get  at  Mordaunt.  Case  knocked  him  on 
the  head  with  the  handle  of  his  knife.  Will  fell  with  blood 
streaming  om  cut  over  the  temple. 

The  dastardly  act  aroused  all  Helen's  fiery  courage.  She  turned 
to  the  Englishman  with  eyes  ablaze. 

"So  you've  at  last  found  your  level.  Border-outlaw!  Kill  me  at 
once.  I'd  rather  be  dead  than  breathe  the  same  air  with  such  a 
coward!" 

"I  swore  I'd  have  you,  if  not  by  fair  means  then  by  foul,"  he 
answered,  with  dark  and  haggard  face. 

"What  do  you  intend  to  do  with  me  now  that  I  am  tied?"  she 
demanded  scornfully. 

"Keep  you  a  prisoner  in  the  woods  till  you  consent  to  marry 
me." 

Helen  laughed  in  scorn.  Desperate  as  was  the  plight,  her 
natural  courage  had  arisen  at  the  cruel  blow  dealt  her  cousin,  and 
she  faced  the  Englishman  with  flashing  eyes  and  undaunted 
mien.  She  saw  he  was  again  unsteady,  and  had  the  cough  and 
catching  breath  habitual  to  certain  men  under  the  influence  of 
liquor.  She  turned  her  attention  to  Will.  He  lay  as  he  had  fallen, 
with  blood  streaming  over  his  pale  face  and  fair  hair.  While  she 
gazed  at  him  Case  whipped  out  his  long  knife,  and  looked  up 
at  Mordaunt. 

"Cap'n,  I'd  better  loosen  a  hatch  fer  him,"  he  said  brutally. 
"He's  dead  cargo  fer  us,  an'  in  the  way." 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  lyi 

He  lowered  the  gleaming  point  upon  Will's  chest. 

"Oh-h-h!"  breathed  Helen  in  horror.  She  tried  to  close  her  eyes 
but  was  so  fascinated  she  could  not. 

"Get  up.  I'll  have  no  murder,"  ordered  Mordaunt.  "Leave  him 
here." 

"He's  not  got  a  bad  cut,"  said  the  man  sitting  on  the  log.  "He'll 
come  to  arter  a  spell,  go  back  to  ther  fort,  an'  give  an  alarm." 

"What's  that  to  me?"  asked  Mordaunt  sharply.  "We  shall  be 
safe.  I  won't  have  him  with  us  because  some  Indian  or  another 
will  kill  him.  It's  not  my  purpose  to  murder  any  one." 

"Ugh!"  grunted  one  of  the  savages,  and  pointed  eastward  with 
his  hand.  "Hurry-long-way-go,"  he  said  in  English.  With  the 
Indians  in  the  lead  the  party  turned  from  the  river  into  the 
forest. 

Helen  looked  back  into  the  sandy  glade  and  saw  Will  lying 
as  they  had  left  him,  unconscious,  with  his  hands  still  bound 
tightly  behind  him,  and  blood  running  over  his  face.  Painful  as 
was  the  thought  of  leaving  him  thus,  it  afforded  her  relief.  She 
assured  herself  he  had  not  been  badly  hurt,  would  recover  con- 
sciousness before  long,  and,  even  bound  as  he  was,  could  make 
his  way  back  to  the  settlement. 

Her  own  situation,  now  that  she  knew  Mordaunt  had  insti- 
gated the  abduction,  did  not  seem  hopeless.  Although  dreading 
Brandt  with  unspeakable  horror,  she  did  not  in  the  least  fear  the 
Englishman.  He  was  mad  to  carry  her  off  like  this  into  the 
wilderness,  but  would  force  her  to  do  nothing.  He  could  not 
keep  her  a  prisoner  long  while  Jonathan  Zane  and  Wetzel  were 
free  to  take  his  trail.  What  were  his  intentions?  Where  was  he 
taking  her?  Such  questions  as  these,  however,  troubled  Helen 
more  than  a  little.  They  brought  her  thoughts  back  to  the  In- 
dians leading  the  way  with  lithe  and  stealthy  step.  How  had 


172  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

Mordaunt  associated  himself  with  these  savages?  Then,  sud- 
denly,  it  dawned  upon  her  that  Brandt  also  might  be  in  this 
scheme  to  carry  her  oflf.  She  scouted  the  idea;  but  it  returned. 
Perhaps  Mordaunt  was  only  a  tool;  perhaps  he  himself  was  being 
deceived.  Helen  turned  pale  at  the  very  thought.  She  had  never 
forgotten  the  strange,  unreadable,  yet  threatening,  expression 
which  Brandt  had  worn  the  day  she  had  refused  to  walk  with 
him. 

Meanwhile  the  party  made  rapid  progress  through  the  forest. 
Not  a  word  was  spoken,  nor  did  any  noise  of  rustling  leaves  or 
crackling  twigs  follow  their  footsteps.  The  savage  in  the  lead 
chose  the  open  and  less  difficult  ground;  he  took  advantage  of 
glades,  mossy  places,  and  rocky  ridges.  This  careful  choosing  was, 
evidently,  to  avoid  noise,  and  make  the  trail  as  difficult  to  follow 
as  possible.  Once  he  stopped  suddenly,  and  listened. 

Helen  had  a  good  look  at  the  savage  while  he  was  in  this  posi- 
tion. His  lean,  athletic  figure  resembled,  in  its  half-clothed  con- 
dition, a  bronzed  statue;  his  powerful  visage  was  set,  changeless 
like  iron.  His  dark  eyes  seemed  to  take  in  all  points  of  the  forest 
before  him. 

Whatever  had  caused  the  halt  was  an  enigma  to  all  save  his 
red-skinned  companion. 

The  silence  of  the  wood  was  the  silence  of  the  desert.  No  bird 
chirped;  no  breath  of  wind  sighed  in  the  treetops;  even  the 
aspens  remained  unagitated.  Pale  yellow  leaves  sailed  slowly, 
reluctantly  down  from  above. 

But  some  faint  sound,  something  unusual  had  jarred  upon  the 
exquisitely  sensitive  ears  of  the  leader,  for  with  a  meaning  shake 
of  the  head  to  his  followers,  he  resumed  the  march  in  a  direction 
at  right  angles  with  the  original  course. 

This  caution,  and  evident  distrust  of  the  forest  ahead,  made 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  173 

Helen  think  again  of  Jonathan  and  Wetzel.  Those  great  border- 
men  might  already  be  on  the  trail  of  her  captors.  The  thought 
thrilled  her.  Presently  she  realized,  from  another  long,  silent 
march  through  forest  thickets,  glades,  aisles,  and  groves,  over 
rock-strewn  ridges,  and  down  mossy-stoned  ravines,  that  her 
strength  was  beginning  to  fail. 

"I  can  go  no  further  with  my  arms  tied  in  this  way,"  she 
declared,  stopping  suddenly. 

"Ugh!"  uttered  the  savage  before  her,  turning  sharply.  He 
brandished  a  tomahawk  before  her  eyes. 

Mordaunt  hurriedly  set  free  her  wrists.  His  pale  face  flushed 
a  dark,  flaming  red  when  she  shrank  from  his  touch  as  if  he  were 
a  viper. 

After  they  had  traveled  what  seemed  to  Helen  many  miles, 
the  vigilance  of  the  leaders  relaxed. 

On  the  banks  of  the  willow-skirted  stream  the  Indian  guide 
halted  them,  and  proceeded  on  alone  to  disappear  in  a  green 
thicket.  Presently  he  reappeared,  and  motioned  for  them  to  come 
on.  He  led  the  way  over  smooth,  sandy  paths  between  clumps  of 
willows,  into  a  heavy  growth  of  alder  bushes  and  prickly  thorns, 
at  length  to  emerge  upon  a  beautiful  grassy  plot  enclosed  by 
green  and  yellow  shrubbery.  Above  the  stream,  which  cut  the 
edge  of  the  glade,  rose  a  sloping,  wooded  ridge,  with  huge  rocks 
projecting  here  and  there  out  of  the  brown  forest. 

Several  birch-bark  huts  could  be  seen;  then  two  rough  bearded 
men  lolling  upon  the  grass,  and  beyond  them  a  group  of  painted 
Indians. 

A  whoop  so  shrill,  so  savage,  so  exultant,  that  it  seemingly 
froze  her  blood,  rent  the  silence.  A  man,  unseen  before,  came 
crashing  through  the  willows  on  the  side  of  the  ridge.  He  leaped 
the  stream  with  the  spring  of  a  wild  horse.  He  was  big  and 


174  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

broad,  with  disheveled  hair,  keen,  hard  face,  and  wild,  gray  eyes. 

Helen's  sight  almost  failed  her;  her  head  whirled  dizzily;  it 
was  as  if  her  heart  had  stopped  beating  and  was  become  a  cold, 
dead  weight.  She  recognized  in  this  man  the  one  whom  she 
feared  most  of  all — Brandt. 

He  cast  one  glance  full  at  her,  the  same  threatening,  cool,  and 
evil-meaning  look  she  remembered  so  well,  and  then  engaged 
the  Indian  guide  in  low  conversation. 

Helen  sank  at  the  foot  of  a  tree,  leaning  against  it.  Despite 
her  weariness  she  had  retained  some  spirit  until  this  direful  rev- 
elation broke  her  courage.  What  worse  could  have  happened? 
Mordaunt  had  led  her,  for  some  reason  that  she  could  not  divine, 
into  the  clutches  of  Brandt,  into  the  power  of  Legget  and  his 
outlaws. 

But  Helen  was  not  one  to  remain  long  dispirited  or  hopeless. 
As  this  plot  thickened,  as  every  added  misfortune  weighed  upon 
her,  when  just  ready  to  give  up  to  despair  she  remembered  the 
bordermen.  Then  Colonel  Zane's  tales  of  their  fearless,  implaca- 
ble pursuit  when  bent  on  rescue  or  revenge,  recurred  to  her,  and 
fortitude  returned.  While  she  had  life  she  would  hope. 

The  advent  of  the  party  with  their  prisoner  enlivened  Leg- 
get's  gang.  A  great  giant  of  a  man,  blond-bearded,  and  handsome 
in  a  wild,  rugged,  uncouth  way,  a  man  Helen  instinctively  knew 
to  be  Legget,  slapped  Brandt  on  the  shoulder. 

"Damme,  Roge,  if  she  ain't  a  regular  little  daisy!  Never  seed 
such  a  purty  lass  in  my  life." 

Brandt  spoke  hurriedly,  and  Legget  laughed. 

All  this  time  Case  had  been  sitting  on  the  grass,  saying  nothing, 
but  with  his  little  eyes  watchful.  Mordaunt  stood  near  him,  his 
head  bowed,  his  face  gloomy. 

"Say,  cap'n,  I  don't  like  this  mess,"  whispered  Case  to  his  mas- 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  175 

ter.  "They  ain't  no  crew  fer  us.  I  know  men,  fer  I've  sailed  the 
seas,  an'  you're  goin'  to  get  what  Metz  calls  the  double-cross." 

Mordaunt  seemed  to  arouse  from  his  gloomy  reverie.  He 
looked  at  Brandt  and  Legget  who  were  now  in  earnest  council. 
Then  his  eyes  wandered  toward  Helen.  She  beckoned  him  to 
come  to  her. 

"Why  did  you  bring  me  here?"  she  asked. 

"Brandt  understood  my  case.  He  planned  this  thing,  and 
seemed  to  be  a  good  friend  of  mine.  He  said  if  I  once  got  you 
out  of  the  settlement,  he  would  give  me  protection  until  I 
crossed  the  border  into  Canada.  There  we  could  be  married," 
replied  Mordaunt  unsteadily. 

"Then  you  meant  marriage  by  me,  if  I  could  be  made  to  con- 
sent?" 

"Of  course.  I'm  not  utterly  vile,"  he  replied,  with  face  lowered 
in  shame. 

"Have  you  any  idea  what  you've  done?" 

"Done?  I  don't  understand." 

"You  have  ruined  yourself,  lost  your  manhood,  become  an 
outlaw,  a  fugitive,  made  yourself  the  worst  thing  on  the  border — 
a  girl-thief,  and  all  for  nothing." 

"No,  I  have  you.  You  are  more  to  me  than  all." 

"But  can't  you  see?  You've  brought  me  out  here  for  Brandt!" 

"My  God!"  exclaimed  Mordaunt.  He  rose  slowly  to  his  feet 
and  gazed  around  like  a  man  suddenly  wakened  from  a  dream. 
"I  see  it  all  now!  Miserable,  drunken  wretch  that  I  am!" 

Helen  saw  his  face  change  and  lighten  as  if  a  cloud  of  darkness 
had  passed  away  from  it.  She  understood  that  love  of  liquor  had 
made  him  a  party  to  this  plot.  Brandt  had  cunningly  worked 
upon  his  weakness,  proposed  a  daring  scheme;  and  filled  his 
befogged  mind  with  hopes  that,  in  a  moment  of  clear-sighted- 


176  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

ness,  he  would  have  seen  to  be  vain  and  impossible.  And  Helen 
understood  also  that  the  sudden  shock  of  surprise,  pain,  possible 
fury,  had  sobered  Mordaunt,  probably  for  the  first  time  in  weeks. 

The  Englishman's  face  became  exceedingly  pale.  Seating  him- 
self on  a  stone  near  Case,  he  bowed  his  head,  remaining  silent 
and  motionless. 

The  conference  between  Legget  and  Brandt  lasted  for  some 
time.  When  it  ended  the  latter  strode  toward  the  motionless 
figure  on  the  rock. 

"Mordaunt,  you  and  Case  will  do  well  to  follow  this  Indian  at 
once  to  the  river,  where  you  can  strike  the  Fort  Pitt  trail,"  said 
Brandt. 

He  spoke  arrogantly  and  authoritatively.  His  keen,  hard  face, 
his  steely  eyes,  bespoke  the  iron  will  and  purpose  of  the  man. 

Mordaunt  rose  with  cold  dignity.  If  he  had  been  a  dupe,  he 
was  one  no  longer,  as  could  be  plainly  read  on  his  calm,  pale 
face.  The  old  listlessness,  the  unsteadiness  had  vanished.  He 
wore  a  manner  of  extreme  quietude;  but  his  eyes  were  like  balls 
of  blazing  blue  steel. 

"Mr.  Brandt,  I  seem  to  have  done  you  a  service,  and  am  no 
longer  required,"  he  said  in  a  courteous  tone. 

Brandt  eyed  his  man;  but  judged  him  wrongly.  An  English 
gentleman  was  new  to  the  border-outlaw. 

"I  swore  the  girl  should  be  mine,"  he  hissed. 

"Doomed  men  cannot  be  choosers!"  cried  Helen,  who  had 
heard  him.  Her  dark  eyes  burned  with  scorn  and  hatred. 

All  the  party  heard  her  passionate  outburst.  Case  arose  as  if 
unconcernedly,  and  stood  by  the  side  of  his  master.  Legget  and 
the  other  two  outlaws  came  up.  The  Indians  turned  their  swarthy 
faces. 

"Hah!  ain't  she  sassy?"  cried  Legget. 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  IJJ 

Brandt  looked  at  Helen,  understood  the  meaning  of  her  words, 
and  laughed.  But  his  face  paled,  and  involuntarily  his  shifty 
glance  sought  the  rocks  and  trees  upon  the  ridge. 

"You  played  me  from  the  first?"  asked  Mordaunt  quietly. 

"I  did,"  replied  Brandt. 

"You  meant  nothing  of  your  promise  to  help  me  across  the 
border?" 

"No." 

"You  intended  to  let  me  shift  for  myself  out  here  in  this 
wilderness?" 

"Yes,  after  this  Indian  guides  you  to  the  river-trail,"  said 
Brandt,  indicating  with  his  finger  the  nearest  savage. 

"I  get  what  you  frontier  men  call  'the  double-cross'?" 

"That's  it,"  replied  Brandt  with  a  hard  laugh,  in  which  Legget 
joined. 

A  short  pause  ensued. 

"What  will  you  do  with  the  girl?" 

"That's  my  affair." 

"Marry  her?"  Mordaunt's  voice  was  low  and  quiet. 

"No!"  cried  Brandt.  "She  flaunted  my  love  in  my  face,  scorned 
me!  She  saw  that  borderman  strike  me,  and  by  God!  I'll  get  even. 
I'll  keep  her  here  in  the  woods  until  I'm  tired  of  her,  and  when 
her  beauty  fades  I'll  turn  her  over  to  Legget." 

Scarcely  had  the  words  dropped  from  his  vile  lips  when  Mor- 
daunt moved  with  tigerish  agility.  He  seized  a  knife  from  the 
belt  of  one  of  the  Indians. 

"Die!"  he  screamed. 

Brandt  grasped  his  tomahawk.  At  the  same  instant  the  man 
who  had  acted  as  Mordaunt's  guide  grasped  the  Englishman 
from  behind. 


178  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

Brandt  struck  ineffectually  at  the  struggling  man. 

"Fair  play!"  roared  Case,  leaping  at  Mordaunt's  second  assail- 
ant. His  long  knife  sheathed  its  glittering  length  in  the  man's 
breast.  Without  even  a  groan  he  dropped.  "Clear  the  decks  !* 
Case  yelled,  sweeping  round  in  a  circle.  All  fell  back  before  that 
whirling  knife. 

Several  of  the  Indians  started  as  if  to  raise  their  rifles;  but 
Legget's  stern  command  caused  them  to  desist. 

The  Englishman  and  the  outlaw  now  engaged  in  a  fearful  en- 
counter. The  practiced,  rugged,  frontier  desperado  apparently 
had  found  his  match  in  this  pale-faced,  slender  man.  His  border 
skill  with  the  hatchet  seemed  offset  by  Mordaunt's  terrible  rage. 
Brandt  whirled  and  swung  the  weapon  as  he  leaped  around  his 
antagonist.  With  his  left  arm  the  Englishman  sought  only  to 
protect  his  head,  while  with  his  right  he  brandished  the  knife. 
Whirling  here  and  there  they  struggled  across  the  cleared  space, 
plunging  out  of  sight  among  the  willows.  During  a  moment 
there  was  a  sound  as  of  breaking  branches;  then  a  dull  blow, 
horrible  to  hear,  followed  by  a  low  moan,  and  then  deep  silence. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


A  BLACK  weight  was  seemingly  lifted  from  Helen's  weary  eye- 
lids. The  sun  shone;  the  golden  forest  surrounded  her;  the  brook 
babbled  merrily;  but  where  were  the  struggling,  panting  men? 
She  noticed  presently,  when  her  vision  had  grown  more  clear, 
that  the  scene  differed  entirely  from  the  willow-glade  where  she 
had  closed  her  eyes  upon  the  fight.  Then  came  the  knowledge 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  179 

that  she  had  fainted,  and,  during  the  time  of  unconsciousness, 
been  moved. 

She  lay  upon  a  mossy  mound  a  few  feet  higher  than  a  swiftly 
running  brook.  A  magnificent  chestnut  tree  spread  its  leafy 
branches  above  her.  Directly  opposite,  about  an  hundred  feet 
away,  loomed  a  gray,  ragged,  moss-stained  cliff.  She  noted  this 
particularly  because  the  dense  forest  encroaching  to  its  very  edge 
excited  her  admiration.  Such  wonderful  coloring  seemed  unreal. 
Dead  gold  and  bright  red  foliage  flamed  everywhere. 

Two  Indians  stood  near  by  silent,  immovable.  No  other  of 
Legget's  band  was  visible.  Helen  watched  the  red  men. 

Sinewy,  muscular  warriors  they  were,  with  bodies  partially 
painted,  and  long,  straight  hair,  black  as  burnt  wood,  interwoven 
with  bits  of  white  bone,  and  plaited  around  waving  eagle  plumes. 
At  first  glance  their  dark  faces  and  dark  eyes  were  expressive  of 
craft,  cunning,  cruelty,  courage,  all  attributes  of  the  savage. 

Yet  wild  as  these  savages  appeared,  Helen  did  not  fear  them  as 
she  did  the  outlaws.  Brandt's  eyes,  and  Legget's,  too,  when 
turned  on  her,  emitted  a  flame  that  seemed  to  scorch  and  shrivel 
her  soul.  When  the  savages  met  her  gaze,  which  was  but  seldom, 
she  imagined  she  saw  intelligence,  even  pity,  in  their  dusky  eyes. 
Certain  it  was  she  did  not  shrink  from  them  as  from  Brandt. 

Suddenly,  with  a  sensation  of  relief  and  joy,  she  remembered 
Mordaunt's  terrible  onslaught  upon  Brandt.  Although  she  could 
not  recollect  the  termination  of  that  furious  struggle,  she  did  re- 
call Brandt's  scream  of  mortal  agony,  and  the  death  of  the  other 
at  Case's  hands.  This  meant,  whether  Brandt  was  dead  or  not, 
that  the  fighting  strength  of  her  captors  had  been  diminished. 
Surely  as  the  sun  had  risen  that  morning,  Helen  believed  Jona- 
than and  Wetzel  lurked  on  the  trail  of  these  renegades.  She 
prayed  that  her  courage,  hope,  strength,  might  be  continued. 


l8o  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

"Ugh!"  exclaimed  one  of  the  savages,  pointing  across  the  open 
space.  A  slight  swaying  of  the  bushes  told  that  some  living 
thing  was  moving  among  them,  and  an  instant  later  the  huge 
frame  of  the  leader  came  into  view.  The  other  outlaw,  and  Case, 
followed  closely.  Farther  down  the  margin  of  the  thicket  the 
Indians  appeared;  but  without  the  slightest  noise  or  disturbance 
of  the  shrubbery. 

It  required  but  a  glance  to  show  Helen  that  Case  was  in  high 
spirits.  His  repulsive  face  glowed  with  satisfaction.  He  carried 
a  bundle,  which  Helen  saw,  with  a  sickening  sense  of  horror, 
was  made  up  of  Mordaunt's  clothing.  Brandt  had  killed  the 
Englishman.  Legget  also  had  a  package  under  his  arm,  which 
he  threw  down  when  he  reached  the  chestnut  tree,  to  draw  from 
his  pocket  a  long,  leather  belt,  such  as  travelers  use  for  the 
carrying  of  valuables.  It  was  evidently  heavy,  and  the  musical 
clink  which  accompanied  his  motion  proclaimed  the  contents 
to  be  gold. 

Brandt  appeared  next;  he  was  white  and  held  his  hand  to  his 
breast.  There  were  dark  stains  on  his  hunting  coat,  which  he 
removed  to  expose  a  shirt  blotched  with  red. 

"You  ain't  much  hurt,  I  reckon?"  inquired  Legget  solicitously. 

"No;  but  I'm  bleeding  bad,"  replied  Brandt  coolly.  He  then 
called  an  Indian  and  went  among  the  willows  skirting  the 
stream. 

"So  I'm  to  be  in  this  border  crew?"  asked  Case,  looking  up 
at  Legget. 

"Sure,"  replied  the  big  outlaw.  "You're  a  handy  fellar,  Case, 
an'  after  I  break  you  into  border  ways  you  will  fit  in  here  tip- 
top. Now  you'd  better  stick  by  me.  When  Eb  Zane,  his  brother 
Jack,  an'  Wetzel  find  out  this  here  day's  work,  hell  will  be  a 
cool  place  compared  with  their  whereabouts.  You'll  be  safe  with 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  l8l 

me,  an'  this  is  the  only  place  on  the  border,  I  reckon,  where 
you  can  say  your  life  is  your  own." 

"I'm  yer  mate,  cap'n.  I've  sailed  with  soldiers,  pirates,  sailors, 
an'  I  guess  I  can  navigate  this  borderland.  Do  we  mess  here? 
You  didn't  come  far." 

"Wai,  I  ain't  pertikuler,  but  I  don't  like  eatin'  with  buzzards," 
said  Legget,  with  a  grin.  "Thet's  why  we  moved  a  bit." 

"What's  buzzards?" 

"Ho!  ho!  Mebbe  you'll  hev  'em  closer'n  you'd  like,  some  day, 
if  you'd  only  know  it.  Buzzards  are  fine  birds,  most  particular 
birds,  as  won't  eat  nothin'  but  flesh,  an'  white  man  or  Injun  is 
pie  fer  'em." 

"Cap'n,  I've  seed  birds  as  wouldn't  wait  till  a  man  was  dead," 
said  Case. 

"Haw!  haw!  you  can't  come  no  sailor  yarns  on  this  fellar.  Wai, 
now,  we've  got  ther  Englishman's  gold.  One  or  t'other  of  us 
might  jest  as  well  hev  it  all." 

"Right  yer  are,  cap'n.  Dice,  cards,  anyways,  so  long  as  I  knows 
the  game." 

"Here,  Jenks,  hand  over  yer  clickers,  an'  bring  us  a  flat  stone," 
said  Legget,  sitting  on  the  moss  and  emptying  the  belt  in  front 
of  him.  Case  took  a  small  bag  from  the  dark  blue  jacket  that  had 
so  lately  covered  Mordaunt's  shoulders,  and  poured  out  its 
bright  contents. 

"This  coat  ain't  worth  keepin',"  he  said,  holding  it  up.  The 
garment  was  rent  and  slashed,  and  under  the  left  sleeve  was  a 
small,  blood-stained  hole  where  one  of  Brandt's  blows  had  fallen. 
"Hullo,  what's  this?"  muttered  the  sailor,  feeling  in  the  pocket 
of  the  jacket.  "Blast  my  timbers,  hooray!" 

He  held  up  a  small,  silver-mounted  whiskey  flask,  unscrewed 
the  lid,  and  lifted  the  vessel  to  his  mouth. 


l82  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

"I'm  kinder  thirsty  myself,"  suggested  Legget. 

"Cap'n,  a  nip  an'  no  more,"  Case  replied,  holding  the  flask 
to  Legget's  lips. 

The  outlaw  called  Jenks  now  returned  with  a  flat  stone  which 
he  placed  between  the  two  men.  The  Indians  gathered  around. 
With  greedy  eyes  they  bent  their  heads  over  the  gamblers,  and 
watched  every  movement  with  breathless  interest.  At  each  click 
of  the  dice,  or  clink  of  gold,  they  uttered  deep  exclamations. 

"Luck's  again'  ye,  cap'n,"  said  Case,  skilfully  shaking  the 
ivory  cubes. 

"Hain't  I  got  eyes?"  growled  the  outlaw. 

Steadily  his  pile  of  gold  diminished,  and  darker  grew  his  face. 

"Cap'n,  I'm  a  bad  wind  to  draw,"  Case  rejoined,  drinking 
again  from  the  flask.  His  naturally  red  face  had  become  livid, 
his  skin  moist,  and  his  eyes  wild  with  excitement. 

"Hullo!  If  them  dice  wasn't  Jenks's,  an'  I  hadn't  played  afore 
with  him,  I'd  swear  they's  loaded." 

"You  ain't  insinuatin'  nothin',  cap'n?"  inquired  Case  softly, 
hesitating  with  the  dice  in  his  hands,  his  evil  eyes  glinting  at 
Legget. 

"No,  you're  fair  enough,"  growled  the  leader.  "It's  my  tough 
luck." 

The  game  progressed  with  infrequent  runs  of  fortune  for 
the  outlaw,  and  presently  every  piece  of  gold  lay  in  a  shining 
heap  before  the  sailor. 

"Clean  busted!"  exclaimed  Legget  in  disgust. 

"Can't  you  find  nothin'  more?"  asked  Case. 

The  outlaw's  bold  eyes  wandered  here  and  there  until  they 
rested  upon  the  prisoner. 

"I'll  play  ther  lass  against  yer  pile  of  gold,"  he  growled.  "Best 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  183 

two  throws  out  'en  three.  See  here,  she's  as  much  mine  as 
Brandt's." 

"Make  it  half  my  pile  an'  I'll  go  you." 

"Nary  time.  Bet,  or  give  me  back  what  yer  win,"  replied  Leg- 
get  gruffly. 

"She's  a  trim  little  craft,  no  mistake,"  said  Case,  critically  sur- 
veying Helen.  "All  right,  cap'n,  I've  sportin'  blood,  an'  I'll  bet. 
Yer  throw  first." 

Legget  won  the  first  cast,  and  Case  the  second.  With  delibera- 
tion the  outlaw  shook  the  dice  in  his  huge  fist,  and  rattled  them 
out  upon  the  stone.  "Hah!"  he  cried  in  delight.  He  had  come 
within  one  of  the  highest  score  possible.  Case  nonchalantly 
flipped  the  little  white  blocks.  The  Indians  crowded  forward, 
their  dusky  eyes  shining. 

Legget  swore  in  a  terrible  voice  which  re-echoed  from  the 
stony  cliff.  The  sailor  was  victorious.  The  outlaw  got  up,  kicked 
the  stone  and  dice  in  the  brook,  and  walked  away  from  the 
group.  He  strode  to  and  fro  under  one  of  the  trees.  Gruffly 
he  gave  an  order  to  the  Indians.  Several  of  them  began  at  once 
to  kindle  a  fire.  Presently  he  called  Jenks,  who  was  fishing  the 
dice  out  of  the  brook,  and  began  to  converse  earnestly  with  him, 
making  fierce  gestures  and  casting  lowering  glances  at  the  sailor. 

Case  was  too  drunk  now  to  see  that  he  had  incurred  the  en- 
mity of  the  outlaw  leader.  He  drank  the  last  of  the  rum,  and 
tossed  the  silver  flask  to  an  Indian,  who  received  the  present 
with  every  show  of  delight. 

Case  then,  with  the  slow,  uncertain  movements  of  a  man 
whose  mind  is  befogged,  began  to  count  his  gold;  but  only  to 
gather  up  a  few  pieces  when  they  slipped  out  of  his  trembling 
hands  to  roll  on  the  moss.  Laboriously,  seriously,  he  kept  at  it 
with  the  doggedness  of  a  drunken  man.  Apparently  he  had  for- 


184  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

gotten  the  others.  Failing  to  learn  the  value  of  the  coins  by  tak- 
ing up  each  in  turn,  he  arranged  them  in  several  piles,  and  began 
to  estimate  his  wealth  in  sections. 

In  the  meanwhile  Helen,  who  had  not  failed  to  take  in  the 
slightest  detail  of  what  was  going  on,  saw  that  a  plot  was  hatch- 
ing which  boded  ill  to  the  sailor.  Moreover,  she  heard  Legget 
and  Jenks  whispering. 

"I  kin  take  him  from  right  here  'atwixt  his  eyes,"  said  Jenks 
softly,  and  tapped  his  rifle  significantly. 

"Wai,  go  ahead,  only  I  ruther  hev  it  done  quieter,"  answered 
Legget.  "We're  yet  a  long  ways,  near  thirty  miles,  from  my 
camp,  an*  there's  no  tellin'  who's  in  ther  woods.  But  we've  got 
ter  git  rid  of  ther  fresh  sailor,  an'  there's  no  surer  way." 

Cautiously  cocking  his  rifle,  Jenks  deliberately  raised  it  to  his 
shoulder.  One  of  the  Indian  sentinels  who  stood  near  at  hand, 
sprang  forward  and  struck  up  the  weapon.  He  spoke  a  single 
word  to  Legget,  pointed  to  the  woods  above  the  cliff,  and  then 
resumed  his  statue-like  attitude. 

"I  told  yer,  Jenks,  that  it  wouldn't  do.  The  redskin  scents 
somethin'  in  the  woods,  an'  ther's  an  Injun  I  never  seed  fooled. 
We  mustn't  make  a  noise.  Take  yer  knife  an'  tomahawk,  crawl 
down  below  the  edge  o'  the  bank  an'  slip  up  on  him.  I'll  give 
half  ther  gold  ter  ther  job." 

Jenks  buckled  his  belt  more  tightly,  gave  one  threatening 
glance  at  the  sailor,  and  slipped  over  the  bank.  The  bed  of  the 
brook  lay  about  six  feet  below  the  level  of  the  ground.  This 
afforded  an  opportunity  for  the  outlaw  to  get  behind  Case 
without  being  observed.  A  moment  passed.  Jenks  disappeared 
round  a  bend  of  the  stream.  Presently  his  grizzled  head  ap- 
peared above  the  bank.  He  was  immediately  behind  the  sailor; 
but  still  some  thirty  feet  away.  This  ground  must  be  covered 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  185 

quickly  and  noiselessly.  The  outlaw  began  to  crawl.  In  his  right 
hand  he  grasped  a  tomahawk,  and  between  his  teeth  was  a  long 
knife.  He  looked  like  a  huge,  yellow  bear. 

The  savages,  with  the  exception  of  the  sentinel  who  seemed 
absorbed  in  the  dense  thicket  on  the  cliff,  sat  with  their  knees 
between  their  hands,  watching  the  impending  tragedy. 

Nothing  but  the  merest  chance,  or  some  extraordinary  inter- 
vention, could  avert  Case's  doom.  He  was  gloating  over  his 
gold.  The  creeping  outlaw  made  no  more  noise  than  a  snake. 
Nearer  and  nearer  he  came;  his  sweaty  face  shining  in  the  sun; 
his  eyes  tigerish;  his  long  body  slipping  silently  over  the  grass. 
At  length  he  was  within  five  feet  of  the  sailor.  His  knotty  hands 
were  dug  into  the  sward  as  he  gathered  energy  for  a  sudden 
spring. 

At  that  very  moment  Case,  with  his  hand  on  his  knife,  rose 
quickly  and  turned  round. 

The  outlaw,  discovered  in  the  act  of  leaping,  had  no  alterna- 
tive, and  spring  he  did,  like  a  panther. 

The  little  sailor  stepped  out  of  line  with  remarkable  quick- 
ness, and  as  the  yellow  body  whirled  past  him,  his  knife  flashed 
blue-bright  in  the  sunshine. 

Jenks  fell  forward,  his  knife  buried  in  the  grass  beneath  him, 
and  his  outstretched  hand  still  holding  the  tomahawk. 

"Tryin'  ter  double-cross  me  fer  my  gold,"  muttered  the  sailor, 
sheathing  his  weapon.  He  never  looked  to  see  whether  or  no 
his  blow  had  been  fatal.  "These  border  fellars  might  think  a 
man  as  sails  the  seas  can't  handle  a  knife."  He  calmly  began 
gathering  up  his  gold,  evidently  indifferent  to  further  attack. 

Helen  saw  Legget  raise  his  own  rifle,  but  only  to  have  it 
struck  aside  as  had  Jenks's.  This  time  the  savage  whispered 
earnestly  to  Legget,  who  called  the  other  Indians  around  him. 


l86  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

The  sentinel's  low  throaty  tones  mingled  with  the  soft  babbling 
of  the  stream.  No  sooner  had  he  ceased  speaking  than  the  effect 
of  his  words  showed  how  serious  had  been  the  information, 
warning  or  advice.  The  Indians  cast  furtive  glances  toward  the 
woods.  Two  of  them  melted  like  shadows  into  the  red  and  gold 
thicket.  Another  stealthily  slipped  from  tree  to  tree  until  he 
reached  the  open  ground,  then  dropped  into  the  grass,  and  was 
seen  no  more  until  his  dark  body  rose  under  the  cliff.  He  stole 
along  the  green-stained  wall,  climbed  a  rugged  corner,  and  van- 
ished amid  the  dense  foliage. 

Helen  felt  that  she  was  almost  past  discernment  or  thought. 
The  events  of  the  day  succeeding  one  another  so  swiftly,  and 
fraught  with  panic,  had,  despite  her  hope  and  fortitude,  reduced 
her  to  a  helpless  condition  of  piteous  fear.  She  understood  that 
the  savages  scented  danger,  or  had,  in  their  mysterious  way,  re- 
ceived intelligence  such  as  rendered  them  wary  and  watchful. 

"Come  on,  now,  an'  make  no  noise,"  said  Legget  to  Case. 
"Bring  the  girl,  an'  see  that  she  steps  light." 

"Ay,  ay,  cap'n,"  replied  the  sailor.  "Where's  Brandt?" 

"He'll  be  comin'  soon's  his  cut  stops  bleedin'.  I  reckon  he's 
weak  yet." 

Case  gathered  up  his  goods,  and,  tucking  it  under  his  arm, 
grasped  Helen's  arm.  She  was  leaning  against  the  tree,  and 
when  he  pulled  her,  she  wrenched  herself  free,  rising  with 
difficulty.  His  disgusting  touch  and  revolting  face  had  revived 
her  sensibilities. 

"Yer  kin  begin  duty  by  carryin'  thet,"  said  Case,  thrusting  the 
package  into  Helen's  arms.  She  let  it  drop  without  moving  a 
hand. 

"I'm  runnin'  this  ship.  Yer  belong  to  me,"  hissed  Case,  and 
then  he  struck  her  on  the  head.  Helen  uttered  a  low  cry  of  dis- 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  187 

tress,  and  half  staggered  against  the  tree.  The  sailor  picked  up 
the  package.  This  time  she  took  it,  trembling  with  horror. 

"Thet's  right.  Now,  give  ther  cap'n  a  kiss,"  he  leered,  and 
jostled  against  her. 

Helen  pushed  him  violently.  With  agonized  eyes  she  appealed 
to  the  Indians.  They  were  engaged  tying  up  their  packs.  Legget 
looked  on  with  a  lazy  grin. 

"Oh!  oh!"  breathed  Helen  as  Case  seized  her  again.  She  tried 
to  scream,  but  could  not  make  a  sound.  The  evil  eyes,  the  beastly 
face,  transfixed  her  with  terror. 

Case  struck  her  twice,  then  roughly  pulled  her  toward  him. 

Half-fainting,  unable  to  move,  Helen  gazed  at  the  heated, 
bloated  face  approaching  hers. 

When  his  coarse  lips  were  within  a  few  inches  of  her  lips 
something  hot  hissed  across  her  brow.  Following  so  closely  as  to 
be  an  accompaniment,  rang  out  with  singular  clearness  the 
sharp  crack  of  a  rifle. 

Case's  face  changed.  The  hot,  surging  flush  faded;  the  expres- 
sion became  shaded,  dulled  into  vacant  emptiness;  his  eyes 
rolled  wildly,  then  remained  fixed,  with  a  look  of  dark  surprise. 
He  stood  upright  an  instant,  swayed  with  the  regular  poise  of* 
a  falling  oak,  and  then  plunged  backward  to  the  ground.  His 
face,  ghastly  and  livid,  took  on  the  awful  calm  of  death. 

A  very  small  hole,  reddish-blue  round  the  edges,  dotted  the 
center  of  his  temple. 

Leggec  stared  aghast  at  the  dead  sailor;  then  he  possessed 
himself  of  the  bag  of  gold. 

"Saved  me  ther  trouble,"  he  muttered,  giving  Case  a  kick. 

The  Indians  glanced  at  the  little  figure,  then  out  into  the 
flaming  thickets.  Each  savage  sprang  behind  a  tree  with  incred- 


l88  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

ible  quickness.  Legget  saw  this,  and  grasping  Helen,  he  quickly 
led  her  within  cover  of  the  chestnut. 

Brandt  appeared  with  his  Indian  companion,  and  both  leaped 
to  shelter  behind  a  clump  of  birches  near  where  Legget  stood. 
Brandt's  hawk  eyes  flashed  upon  the  dead  Jenks  and  Case. 
Without  asking  a  question  he  seemed  to  take  in  the  situation. 
He  stepped  over  and  grasped  Helen  by  the  arm. 

"Who  killed  Case?"  he  asked  in  a  whisper,  staring  at  the  little 
blue  hole  in  the  sailor's  temple. 

No  one  answered. 

The  two  Indians  who  had  gone  into  the  woods  to  the  right 
of  the  stream,  now  returned.  Hardly  were  they  under  the  trees 
with  their  party,  when  the  savage  who  had  gone  off  alone  arose 
out  of  the  grass  in  the  left  of  the  brook,  took  it  with  a  flying 
leap,  and  darted  into  their  midst.  He  was  the  sentinel  who  had 
knocked  up  the  weapons,  thereby  saving  Case's  life  twice.  He 
was  lithe  and  supple,  but  not  young.  His  grave,  shadowy-lined, 
iron  visage  showed  the  traces  of  time  and  experience.  All  gazed 
at  him  as  at  one  whose  wisdom  was  greater  than  theirs. 

"Old  Horse,"  said  Brandt  in  English.  "Haven't  I  seen  bullet 
holes  like  this?" 

The  Chippewa  bent  over  Case,  and  then  slowly  straightened 
his  tall  form. 

"Deathwindl"  he  replied,  answering  in  the  white  man's 
language. 

His  Indian  companions  uttered  low,  plaintive  murmurs,  not 
signifying  fear  so  much  as  respect. 

Brandt  turned  as  pale  as  the  clean  birch-bark  on  the  tree  near 
him.  The  gray  flare  of  his  eyes  gave  out  a  terrible  light  of  cer- 
tainty and  terror. 

"Legget,  you  needn't  try  to  hide  your  trail,"  he  hissed,  and  i! 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  189 

seemed  as  if  there  was  a  bitter,  reckless  pleasure  in  these  words. 
Then  the  Chippewa  glided  into  the  low  bushes  bordering 
the  creek.  Legget  followed  him,  with  Brandt  leading  Helen, 
and  the  other  Indians  brought  up  the  rear,  each  one  sending 
wild,  savage  glances  into  the  dark,  surrounding  forest. 


CHAPTER  XIX 


A  DENSE  white  fog  rose  from  the  river,  obscuring  all  objects, 
when  the  bordermen  rolled  out  of  their  snug  bed  of  leaves.  The 
air  was  cool  and  bracing,  faintly  fragrant  with  dying  foliage 
and  the  damp,  dewy  luxuriance  of  the  ripened  season.  Wetzel 
pulled  from  under  the  protecting  ledge  a  bundle  of  bark  and 
sticks  he  had  put  there  to  keep  dry,  and  built  a  fire,  while 
Jonathan  fashioned  a  cup  from  a  green  fruit  resembling  a  gourd, 
filling  it  at  a  spring  near  by. 

"Lew,  there's  a  frosty  nip  in  the  water  this  mornin',"  said 
Jonathan. 

"I  reckon.  It's  gettin'  along  into  fall  now.  Any  clear,  still 
night'll  fetch  all  the  leaves,  an'  strip  the  trees  bare  as  burned 
timber,"  answered  Wetzel,  brushing  the  ashes  off  the  strip  of 
meat  he  had  roasted.  "Get  a  stick,  an'  help  me  cook  the  rest  of 
this  chunk  of  bison.  The  sun'll  be  an  hour  breakin'  up  thet  mist, 
an'  we  can't  clear  out  till  then.  Mebbe  we  won't  have  no  chance 
to  light  another  fire  soon." 

With  these  bordermen  everything  pertaining  to  their  lonely 
lives,  from  the  lighting  of  a  fire  to  the  trailing  of  a  redskin,  was 
singularly  serious.  No  gladsome  song  ever  came  from  their  lips; 


IpO  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

there  was  no  jollity  around  their  camp-fire.  Hunters  had  their 
moments  of  rapturous  delight;  bordermen  knew  the  peace,  the 
content  of  the  wilderness,  but  their  pursuits  racked  nerve  and 
heart.  Wetzel  had  his  moments  of  frenzied  joy,  but  they  passed 
with  the  echo  of  his  vengeful  yell.  Jonathan's  happiness,  such  as 
it  was,  had  been  to  roam  the  forests.  That,  before  a  woman's  eyes 
had  dispelled  it,  had  been  enough,  and  compensated  him  for 
the  gloomy,  bloody  phantoms  which  haunted  him. 

The  bordermen,  having  partaken  of  the  frugal  breakfast, 
stowed  in  their  spacious  pockets  all  the  meat  that  was  left,  and 
were  ready  for  the  day's  march.  They  sat  silent  for  a  time  wait- 
ing for  the  mist  to  lift.  It  broke  in  places,  rolled  in  huge  billows, 
sailed  aloft  like  great  white  clouds,  and  again  hung  tenaciously 
to  the  river  and  the  plain.  Away  in  the  west  blue  patches  of  sky 
shone  through  the  rifts,  and  eastward  banks  of  misty  vapor 
reddened  beneath  the  rising  sun.  Suddenly  from  beneath  the 
silver  edge  of  the  rising  pall  the  sun  burst  gleaming  gold,  dis- 
closing the  winding  valley  with  its  steaming  river. 

"We'll  make  up  stream  fer  Two  Islands,  an'  cross  there  if  so 
be  we've  reason,"  Wetzel  had  said. 

Through  the  dewy  dells,  avoiding  the  wet  grass  and  bushes, 
along  the  dark,  damp  glades  with  their  yellow  carpets,  under 
the  thinning  arches  of  the  trees,  down  the  gentle  slopes  of  the 
ridges,  rich  with  green  moss,  the  bordermen  glided  like  gray 
shadows.  The  forest  was  yet  asleep.  A  squirrel  frisked  up  an 
oak  and  barked  quarrelsomely  at  these  strange,  noiseless  visitors. 
A  crow  cawed  from  somewhere  overhead.  These  were  the  only 
sounds  disturbing  the  quiet  early  hour. 

As  the  bordermen  advanced  the  woods  lightened  and  awoke 
to  life  and  joy.  Birds  sang,  trilled,  warbled,  or  whistled  their 
plaintive  songs,  peculiar  to  the  dying  season,  and  in  harmony 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  Ipl 

with  the  glory  of  the  earth.  Birds  that  in  earlier  seasons  would 
have  screeched  and  fought,  now  sang  and  fluttered  side  by  side, 
in  fraternal  parade  on  their  slow  pilgrimage  to  the  far  south. 

"Bad  time  fer  us,  when  the  birds  are  so  tame,  an'  chipper. 
We  can't  put  faith  in  them  these  days,"  said  Wetzel.  "Seems 
like  they  never  was  wild.  I  can  tell,  'cept  at  this  season,  by  the 
way  they  whistle  an'  act  in  the  woods,  if  there's  been  any  In- 
juns along  the  trails." 

The  greater  part  of  the  morning  passed  thus  with  the  border- 
men  steadily  traversing  the  forest;  here,  through  a  spare  and 
gloomy  wood,  blasted  by  fire,  worn  by  age,  with  many  a  de- 
throned monarch  of  bygone  times  rotting  to  punk  and  duff 
under  the  ferns,  with  many  a  dark,  seamed  and  ragged  king  still 
standing,  but  gray  and  bald  of  head  and  almost  ready  to  take 
his  place  in  the  forest  of  the  past;  there,  through  a  maze  of 
young  saplings  where  each  ash,  maple,  hickory  and  oak  added 
some  new  and  beautiful  hue  to  the  riot  of  color. 

"I  just  had  a  glimpse  of  the  lower  island,  as  we  passed  an 
opening  in  the  thicket,"  said  Jonathan. 

"We  ain't  far  away,"  replied  Wetzel. 

The  bordermen  walked  less  rapidly  in  order  to  proceed  with 
more  watchfulness.  Every  rod  or  two  they  stopped  to  listen. 

"You  think  Legget's  across  the  river?"  asked  Jonathan. 

"He  was  two  days  back,  an'  had  his  gang  with  him.  He's  up 
to  some  bad  work,  but  I  can't  make  out  what.  One  thing,  I 
never  seen  his  trail  so  near  Fort  Henry." 

They  emerged  at  length  into  a  more  open  forest  which  skirted 
the  river.  At  a  point  still  some  distance  ahead,  but  plainly  in 
sight,  two  small  islands  rose  out  of  the  water. 

"Hist!  What's  that?"  whispered  Wetzel,  slipping  his  hand  in 
Jonathan's  arm. 


192  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

A  hundred  yards  beyond  lay  a  long,  dark  figure  stretched  at 
full  length  under  one  of  the  trees  close  to  the  bank. 

"Looks  like  a  man,"  said  Jonathan. 

"You've  hit  the  mark.  Take  a  good  peep  roun'  now,  Jack,  fer 
we're  comin'  somewhere  near  the  trail  we  want." 

Minutes  passed  while  the  patient  bordermen  searched  the  for- 
est with  their  eyes,  seeking  out  every  tree  within  rifle  range,  or 
surveyed  the  level  glades,  scrutinized  the  hollows,  and  bent 
piercing  eyes  upon  the  patches  of  ferns. 

"If  there's  a  redskin  around  he  ain't  big  enough  to  hold  a 
gun,"  said  Wetzel,  moving  forward  again,  yet  still  with  that 
same  stealthy  step  and  keen  caution. 

Finally  they  were  gazing  down  upon  the  object  which  had 
attracted  Wetzel's  attention. 

"Will  Sheppard!"  cried  Jonathan.  "Is  he  dead?  What's  this 
mean?" 

Wetzel  leaned  over  the  prostrate  lad,  and  then  quickly  turned 
to  his  companion. 

"Get  some  water.  Take  his  cap.  No,  he  ain't  even  hurt  bad. 
unless  he's  got  some  wound  as  don't  show." 

Jonathan  returned  with  the  water,  and  Wetzel  bathed  the 
bloody  face.  When  the  gash  on  Will's  forehead  was  clean,  it 
told  the  bordermen  much. 

"Not  an  hour  old,  that  blow,"  muttered  Wetzel. 

"He's  comin'  to,"  said  Jonathan  as  Will  stirred  uneasily  and 
moaned.  Presently  the  lad  opened  his  eyes  and  sat  bolt  upright. 
He  looked  bewildered  for  a  moment,  and  felt  of  his  head  while 
gazing  vaguely  at  the  bordermen.  Suddenly  he  cried: 

"I  remember!  We  were  captured,  brought  here,  and  I  was 
struck  down  by  that  villain  Case." 

"We?  Who  was  with  you?"  asked  Jonathan  slowly. 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  193 

"Helen.  We  came  after  flowers  and  leaves.  While  in  full  sight 
of  the  fort  I  saw  an  Indian.  We  hurried  back,"  he  cried,  and 
proceeded  with  broken,  panting  voice  to  tell  his  story. 

Jonathan  Zane  leaped  to  his  feet  with  face  deathly  white  and 
eyes  blue-black,  like  burning  stars. 

"Jack,  study  the  trail  while  I  get  the  lad  acrost  the  river,  an' 
steered  fer  home,"  said  Wetzel,  and  then  he  asked  Will  if  he 
could  swim. 

"Yes;  but  you  will  find  a  canoe  there  in  those  willows." 

"Come,  lad,  we've  no  time  to  spare,"  added  Wetzel,  sliding 
down  the  bank  and  entering  the  willows.  He  came  out  almost 
immediately  with  the  canoe  which  he  launched. 

Will  turned  that  he  might  make  a  parting  appeal  to  Jonathan 
to  save  Helen;  but  could  not  speak.  The  expression  on  the 
borderman's  face  frightened  him. 

Motionless  and  erect  Jonathan  stood,  his  arms  folded  and  his 
white,  stern  face  distorted  with  the  agony  of  remorse,  fear,  and 
anguish,  which,  even  as  Will  gazed,  froze  into  an  awful,  deadly 
look  of  fateful  purpose. 

Wetzel  pushed  the  canoe  off,  and  paddled  with  powerfuf 
strokes;  he  left  Will  on  the  opposite  bank,  and  returned  at 
swiftly  as  he  could  propel  the  light  craft. 

The  bordermen  met  each  other's  glance,  and  had  little  need 
of  words.  Wetzel's  great  shoulders  began  to  sag  slightly,  and  his 
head  lowered  as  his  eyes  sought  the  grass;  a  dark  and  gloomy 
shade  overcast  his  features.  Thus  he  passed  from  borderman 
to  Deathwind.  The  sough  of  the  wind  overhead  among  the 
almost  naked  branches  might  well  have  warned  Indians  and 
renegades  that  Deathwind  was  on  the  trail! 

"Brandt's  had  a  hand  in  this,  an'  the  Englishman's  a  fool!" 
said  Wetzel. 


194  ™E  LAST  TRAIL 

"An  hour  ahead;  can  we  come  up  with  them  before  they 
join  Brandt  an'  Legget?" 

"We  can  try,  but  like  as  not  we'll  fail.  Legget's  gang  is  thir- 
teen strong  by  now.  I  said  it!  Somethin'  told  me — a  hard  trail,, 
a  long  trail,  an'  our  last  trail." 

"It's  over  thirty  miles  to  Legget's  camp.  We  know  the  woods, 
an'  every  stream,  an'  every  cover,"  hissed  Jonathan  Zane. 

With  no  further  words  Wetzel  took  the  trail  on  the  run,  and 
so  plain  was  it  to  his  keen  eyes  that  he  did  not  relax  his  steady 
lope  except  to  stop  and  listen  at  regular  intervals.  Jonathan 
followed  with  easy  swing.  Through  forest  and  meadow,  over 
hill  and  valley,  they  ran,  fleet  and  tireless.  Once,  with  unerring 
instinct,  they  abruptly  left  the  broad  trail  and  cut  far  across  a 
wide  and  rugged  ridge  to  come  again  upon  the  tracks  of  the 
marching  band.  Then,  in  open  country  they  reduced  their  speed 
to  a  walk.  Ahead,  in  a  narrow  valley,  rose  a  thicket  of  willows, 
yellow  in  the  sunlight,  and  impenetrable  to  human  vision.  Like 
huge  snakes  the  bordermen  crept  into  this  copse,  over  the  sand, 
under  the  low  branches,  hard  on  the  trail.  Finally,  in  a  light, 
open  space,  where  the  sun  shone  through  a  network  of  yellow 
branches  and  foliage,  Wetzel's  hand  was  laid  upon  Jonathan's 
shoulder. 

"Listen!  Hear  that!"  he  whispered. 

Jonathan  heard  the  flapping  of  wings,  and  a  low,  hissing  sound, 
not  unlike  that  made  by  a  goose. 

"Buzzards!"  he  said,  with  a  dark,  grim  smile.  "Mebbe  Brandt 
has  begun  our  work.  Come." 

Out  into  the  open  they  crawled  to  put  to  flight  a  flock  of 
huge  black  birds  with  grisly,  naked  necks,  hooked  beaks,  and 
long,  yellow  claws.  Upon  the  green  grass  lay  three  half-naked 
men,  ghastly,  bloody,  in  terribly  limp  and  lifeless  positions. 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  195 

"Metzar's  man  Smith,  Jenks,  the  outlaw,  and  Mordaunt!" 

Jonathan  Zane  gazed  darkly  into  the  steely,  sightless  eyes  of 
the  traitor.  Death's  awful  calm  had  set  the  expression;  but  the 
man's  whole  life  was  there,  its  better  part  sadly  shining  forth 
among  the  cruel  shadows. 

His  body  was  mutilated  in  a  frightful  manner.  Cuts,  stabs, 
and  slashes  told  the  tale  of  a  long  encounter,  brought  to  an  end 
by  one  clean  stroke. 

"Come  here,  Lew.  You've  seen  men  chopped  up;  but  look  at 
this  dead  Englishman,"  called  Zane. 

Mordaunt  lay  weltering  in  a  crimson  tide.  Strangely  though, 
his  face  was  uninjured.  A  black  bruise  showed  under  his  fair 
hair.  The  ghost  of  a  smile  seemed  to  hover  around  his  set  lips, 
yet  almost  intangible  though  it  was,  it  showed  that  at  last  he 
had  died  a  man.  His  left  shoulder,  side  and  arm  showed  where 
the  brunt  of  Brandt's  attack  had  fallen. 

"How'd  he  ever  fight  so?"  mused  Jonathan. 

"You  never  can  tell,"  replied  Wetzel.  "Mebbe  he  killed  this 
other  fellar,  too;  but  I  reckon  not.  Come,  we  must  go  slow  now, 
fer  Legget  is  near  at  hand." 

Jonathan  brought  huge,  flat  stones  from  the  brook,  and  laid 
them  over  Mordaunt;  then,  cautiously  he  left  the  glade  on  Wet- 
zel's  trail. 

Five  hundred  yards  farther  on  Wetzel  had  ceased  following 
the  outlaw's  tracks  to  cross  the  creek  and  climb  a  ridge.  He  was 
beginning  his  favorite  trick  of  making  a  wide  detour.  Jonathan 
hurried  forward,  feeling  he  was  safe  from  observation.  Soon  he 
distinguished  the  tall,  brown  figure  of  his  comrade  gliding 
ahead  from  tree  to  tree,  from  bush  to  bush. 

"See  them  maples  an'  chestnuts  down  thar,"  said  Wetzel 


ig/6  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

when  Jonathan  had  come  up,  pointing  through  an  opening  in 
the  foliage.  "They've  stopped  fer  some  reason." 

On  through  the  forest  the  bordermen  glided.  They  kept  near 
the  summit  of  the  ridge,  under  the  best  cover  they  could  find, 
and  passed  swiftly  over  this  half-circle.  When  beginning  once 
more  to  draw  toward  the  open  grove  in  the  valley,  they  saw  a 
long,  irregular  cliff,  densely  wooded.  They  swerved  a  little,  and 
made  for  this  excellent  covert. 

They  crawled  the  last  hundred  yards  and  never  shook  a  fern, 
moved  a  leaf,  or  broke  a  twig.  Having  reached  the  brink  of  the 
low  precipice,  they  saw  the  grassy  meadow  below,  the  straggling 
trees,  the  brook,  the  group  of  Indians  crowding  round  the  white 
men. 

"See  that  point  of  rock  thar?  It's  better  cover,"  whispered 
Wetzel. 

Patiently,  with  no  hurry  or  excitement,  they  slowly  made  their 
difficult  way  among  the  rocks  and  ferns  to  the  vantage  point 
desired.  Taking  a  position  like  this  was  one  the  bordermen 
strongly  favored.  They  could  see  everywhere  in  front,  and  had 
the  thick  woods  at  their  backs. 

"What  are  they  up  to?"  whispered  Jonathan,  as  he  and  Wet- 
zel lay  close  together  under  a  mass  of  grapevine  still  tenacious 
of  its  broad  leaves. 

"Dicin',"  answered  Wetzel.  "I  can  see  'em  throw;  anyways, 
nothin'  but  bettin'  ever  makes  redskins  act  like  that." 

"Who's  playin'?  Where's  Brandt?" 

"I  can  make  out  Legget;  see  his  shaggy  head.  The  other  must 
be  Case.  Brandt  ain't  in  sight.  Nursin'  a  hurt  perhaps.  Ah!  See 
thar!  Over  under  the  big  tree  as  stands  dark-like  agin  the 
thicket.  Thet's  an  Injun,  an'  he  looks  too  quiet  an'  keen  to  suit 
me.  We'll  have  a  care  of  him." 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  197 

"Must  be  playin'  fer  Mordaunt's  gold." 

"Like  as  not,  for  where'd  them  ruffians  get  any  'cept  they  stole 
it." 

"Aha!  They're  gettin'  up!  See  Legget  walk  away  shakin'  his 
big  head.  He's  mad.  Mebbe  he'll  be  madder  presently,"  growled 
Jonathan. 

"Case's  left  alone.  He's  countin'  his  winnin's.  Jack,  look  out 
fer  more  work  took  off  our  hands." 

"By  gum!  See  that  Injun  knock  up  a  leveled  rifle." 

"I  told  you,  an'  thet  redskin  has  his  suspicions.  He's  seen  us 
down  along  ther  ridge.  There's  Helen,  sittin'  behind  the  biggest 
tree.  Thet  Injun  guard,  'afore  he  moved,  kept  us  from  seem' 
her." 

Jonathan  made  no  answer  to  this;  but  his  breath  literally 
hissed  through  his  clenched  teeth. 

"Thar  goes  the  other  outlaw,"  whispered  Wetzel,  as  if  his 
comrade  could  not  see.  "It's  all  up  with  Case.  See  the  sneak 
bendin'  down  the  bank.  Now,  thet's  a  poor  way.  It'd  better  be 
done  from  the  front,  walkin'  up  natural-like,  instead  of  tryin' 
to  cover  thet  wide  stretch.  Case'll  see  him  or  hear  him  sure. 
Thar,  he's  up  now,  an'  crawlin'.  He's  too  slow,  too  slow.  Aha! 
I  knew  it — Case  turns.  Look  at  the  outlaw  spring!  Well,  did  you 
see  thet  little  cuss  whip  his  knife  ?  One  more  less  fer  us  to  quiet. 
Thet  makes  four,  Jack,  an'  mebbe,  soon,  it'll  be  five." 

"They're  holdin'  a  council,"  said  Jonathan. 

"I  see  two  Injuns  sneakin'  off  into  the  woods,  an'  here  comes 
thet  guard.  He's  a  keen  redskin,  Jack,  fer  we  did  come  light 
through  the  brush.  Mebbe  it'd  be  well  to  stop  his  scoutin'." 

"Lew,  that  villain  Case  is  bullyin'  Helen!"  cried  Jonathan. 

"Sh-sh-h,"  whispered  Wetzel. 

"See!  He's  pulled  her  to  her  feet.  Oh!  He  struck  her!  Oh!" 


Ip8  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

Jonathan  leveled  his  rifle  and  would  have  fired,  but  for  the 
iron  grasp  on  his  wrist. 

"Hev  you  lost  yer  senses?  It's  full  two  hundred  paces,  an'  too 
far  fer  your  piece,"  said  Wetzel  in  a  whisper.  "An'  it  ain't  sense 
to  try  from  here." 

"Lend  me  your  gun!  Lend  me  your  gun!" 

Silently  Wetzel  handed  him  the  long,  black  rifle. 

Jonathan  raised  it,  but  trembled  so  violently  that  the  barrel 
wavered  like  a  leaf  in  the  breeze. 

"Take  it,  I  can't  cover  him,"  groaned  Jonathan.  "This  is  new 
to  me.  I  ain't  myself.  God!  Lew,  he  struck  her  again!  Again! 
He's  tryin'  to  kiss  her!  Wetzel,  if  you're  my  friend,  kill  him!" 

"Jack,  it'd  be  better  to  wait,  an' " 

"I  love  her,"  breathed  Jonathan. 

The  long,  black  barrel  swept  up  to  a  level  and  stopped.  White 
smoke  belched  from  among  the  green  leaves;  the  report  rang 
throughout  the  forest. 

"Ah!  I  saw  him  stop  an'  pause,"  hissed  Jonathan.  "He  stand^ 
he  sways,  he  falls!  Death  for  yours,  you  sailor-beast!" 


CHAPTER  XX 


THE  bordermen  watched  Legget  and  his  band  disappear  into 
the  thicket  adjoining  the  grove.  When  the  last  dark,  lithe  form 
glided  out  of  sight  among  the  yellowing  copse,  Jonathan  leaped 
from  the  low  cliff,  and  had  hardly  reached  the  ground  before 
Wetzel  dashed  down  to  the  grassy  turf. 
Again  they  followed  the  outlaw's  trail,  darker-faced,  fiercer- 


TIDE  LAST  TRAIL  199 

visaged  than  ever,  with  cocked,  tightly-gripped  rifles  thrust 
well  before  them,  and  light  feet  that  scarcely  brushed  the  leaves. 

Wetzel  halted  after  a  long  tramp  up  and  down  the  ridges, 
and  surveyed  with  keen  intent  the  lay  of  the  land  ahead. 

"Sooner  or  later  we'll  hear  from  that  redskin  as  discovered 
us  a  ways  back,"  whispered  he.  "I  wish  we  might  get  a  crack 
at  him  afore  he  hinders  us  bad.  I  ain't  seen  many  keener  Injuns. 
It's  lucky  we  fixed  ther  arrow-shootin'  Shawnee.  We'd  never 
hev  beat  thet  combination.  An'  fer  all  of  thet  I'm  worrin'  some 
about  the  goin'  ahead." 

"Ambush?"  Jonathan  asked. 

"Like  as  not.  Legget'll  send  thet  Injun  back,  an'  mebbe  more'n 
him.  Jack,  see  them  little  footprints?  They're  Helen's.  Look 
how  she's  draggin'  along.  Almost  tuckered  out.  Legget  can't 
travel  many  more  miles  to-day.  He'll  make  a  stand  somewheres, 
an'  lose  all  his  redskins  afore  he  gives  up  the  lass." 

"I'll  never  live  through  to-night  with  her  in  that  gang.  She'll 
be  saved,  or  dead,  before  the  stars  pale  in  the  light  of  the  moon." 

"I  reckon  we're  nigh  the  end  for  some  of  us.  It'll  be  moon- 
light an  hour  arter  dusk,  an'  now  it's  only  the  middle  of  the 
arternoon;  we've  time  enough  fer  anythin'.  Now,  Jack,  let's  not 
tackle  the  trail  straight.  We'll  split,  an'  go  round  to  head  'em 
off.  See  thet  dead  white  oak  standin'  high  over  thar?" 

Jonathan  looked  out  between  the  spreading  branches  of  a 
beech,  and  saw,  far  over  a  low  meadow,  luxuriant  with  grasses 
and  rushes  and  bright  with  sparkling  ponds  and  streams,  a 
dense  wood  out  of  which  towered  a  bare,  bleached  tree-top. 

"You  slip  around  along  the  right  side  of  this  meader,  an'  I'll 
take  the  left  side.  Go  slow,  an'  hev  yer  eyes  open.  We'll  meet 
under  thet  big  dead  tree.  I  allow  we  can  see  it  from  anywhere 
around.  We'll  leave  the  trail  here,  an'  take  it  up  farther  on. 


20O  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

Legget's  goin'  straight  for  his  camp;  he  ain't  losin'  an  inch. 
He  wants  to  get  in  that  rocky  hole  of  his'n." 

Wetzel  stepped  off  the  trail,  glided  into  the  woods,  and  van- 
ished. 

Jonathan  turned  to  the  right,  traversed  the  summit  of  the 
ridge,  softly  traveled  down  its  slope,  and,  after  crossing  a  slow, 
eddying,  quiet  stream,  gained  the  edge  of  the  forest  on  that 
side  of  the  swamp.  A  fringe  of  briars  and  prickly  thorns  bor- 
dered this  wood  affording  an  excellent  cover.  On  the  right  the 
land  rose  rather  abruptly.  He  saw  that  by  walking  up  a  few 
paces  he  could  command  a  view  of  the  entire  swamp,  as  well  as 
the  ridge  beyond,  which  contained  Wetzel,  and,  probably,  the 
outlaw  and  his  band. 

Remembering  his  comrade's  admonition,  Jonathan  curbed  his 
unusual  impatience  and  moved  slowly.  The  wind  swayed  the 
tree-tops,  and  rustled  the  fallen  leaves.  Birds  sang  as  if  thinking 
the  warm,  soft  weather  was  summer  come  again.  Squirrels 
dropped  heavy  nuts  that  cracked  on  the  limbs,  or  fell  with  a 
thud  to  the  ground,  and  they  scampered  over  the  dry  earth, 
scratching  up  the  leaves  as  they  barked  and  scolded.  Crows 
cawed  clamorously  after  a  hawk  that  had  darted  under  the 
tree-tops  to  escape  them;  deer  loped  swiftly  up  the  hill,  and  a 
lordly  elk  rose  from  a  wallow  in  the  grassy  swamp,  crashing 
into  the  thicket. 

When  two-thirds  around  this  oval  plain,  which  was  a  mile 
long  and  perhaps  one-fourth  as  wide,  Jonathan  ascended  the 
hill  to  make  a  survey.  The  grass  waved  bright  brown  and  golden 
in  the  sunshine,  swished  in  the  wind,  and  swept  like  a  choppy 
sea  to  the  opposite  ridge.  The  hill  was  not  densely  wooded. 
In  many  places  the  red-brown  foliage  opened  upon  irregular 
patches,  some  black,  as  if  having  been  burned  over,  others  show  • 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  2OI 

ing  the  yellow  and  purple  colors  of  the  low  thickets  and  the 
gray,  barren  stones. 

Suddenly  Jonathan  saw  something  darken  one  of  these  sunlit 
plots.  It  might  have  been  a  deer.  He  studied  the  rolling,  rounded 
tree-tops,  the  narrow  strips  between  the  black  trunks,  and  the 
open  places  that  were  clear  in  the  sunshine.  He  had  nearly  come 
to  believe  he  had  seen  a  small  animal  or  bird  flit  across  the  white 
of  the  sky  far  in  the  background,  when  he  distinctly  saw  dark 
figures  stealing  along  past  a  green-gray  rock,  only  to  disappear 
under  colored  banks  of  foliage.  Presently,  lower  down,  they  re- 
appeared and  crossed  an  open  patch  of  yellow  fern.  Jonathan 
counted  them.  Two  were  rather  yellow  in  color,  the  hue  of 
buckskin;  another,  slight  of  stature  as  compared  with  the  first, 
and  light  gray  by  contrast.  Then  six  black,  slender,  gliding  forms 
crossed  the  space.  Jonathan  then  lost  sight  of  them,  and  did  not 
get  another  glimpse.  He  knew  them  to  be  Legget  and  his  band. 
The  slight  figure  was  Helen. 

Jonathan  broke  into  a  run,  completed  the  circle  around  the 
swamp,  and  slowed  into  a  walk  when  approaching  the  big  dead 
tree  where  he  was  to  wait  for  Wetzel. 

Several  rods  beyond  the  lowland  he  came  to  a  wood  of  white 
oaks,  all  giants  rugged  and  old,  with  scarcely  a  sapling  inter- 
mingled with  them.  Although  he  could  not  see  the  objective  point, 
he  knew  from  his  accurate  sense  of  distance  that  he  was  near  it. 
As  he  entered  the  wood  he  swept  its  whole  length  and  width 
with  his  eyes,  he  darted  forward  twenty  paces  to  halt  suddenly 
behind  a  tree.  He  knew  full  well  that  a  sharply  moving  object 
was  more  difficult  to  see  in  the  woods,  than  one  stationary. 
Again  he  ran,  fleet  and  light,  a  few  paces  ahead  to  take  up  a 
position  as  before  behind  a  tree.  Thus  he  traversed  the  forest. 


202  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

On  the  other  side  he  found  the  dead  oak  of  which  Wetzel  had 
spoken. 

Its  trunk  was  hollow.  Jonathan  squeezed  himself  into  the 
blackened  space,  with  his  head  in  a  favorable  position  behind  a 
projecting  knot,  where  he  could  see  what  might  occur  near  at 
hand. 

He  waited  for  what  seemed  to  him  a  long  while,  during  which 
he  neither  saw  nor  heard  anything,  and  then,  suddenly,  the 
report  of  a  rifle  rang  out.  A  single,  piercing  scream  followed. 
Hardly  had  the  echo  ceased  when  three  hollow  reports,  dis- 
tinctly different  in  tone  from  the  first,  could  be  heard  from 
the  same  direction.  In  quick  succession  short,  fierce  yells  at- 
tended rather  than  succeeded,  the  reports. 

Jonathan  stepped  out  of  the  hiding-place,  cocked  his  rifle,  and 
fixed  a  sharp  eye  on  the  ridge  before  him  whence  those  startling 
cries  had  come.  The  first  rifle-shot,  unlike  any  other  in  its  short, 
spiteful,  stinging  quality,  was  unmistakably  Wetzel's.  Zane 
had  heard  it,  followed  many  times,  as  now,  by  the  wild  death- 
cry  of  a  savage.  The  other  reports  were  of  Indian  guns,  and  the 
yells  were  the  clamoring,  exultant  cries  of  Indians  in  pursuit. 

Far  down  where  the  open  forest  met  the  gloom  of  the  thickets, 
a  brown  figure  flashed  across  the  yellow  ground.  Darting  among 
the  trees,  across  the  glades,  it  moved  so  swiftly  that  Jonathan 
knew  it  was  Wetzel.  In  another  instant  a  chorus  of  yelps  re- 
sounded from  the  foliage,  and  three  savages  burst  through  the 
thicket  almost  at  right  angles  with  the  fleeing  borderman, 
running  to  intercept  him.  The  borderman  did  not  swerve  from 
his  course;  but  came  on  straight  toward  the  dead  tree,  with 
the  wonderful  fleetness  that  so  often  had  served  him  well. 

Even  in  that  moment  Jonathan  thought  of  what  desperate 
chances  his  comrade  had  taken.  The  trick  was  plain.  Wetzel 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  203 

had,  most  likely,  shot  the  dangerous  scout,  and,  taking  to  his 
heels,  raced  past  the  others,  trusting  to  his  speed  and  their  poor 
marksmanship  to  escape  with  a  whole  skin. 

When  within  a  hundred  yards  of  the  oak  Wetzel's  strength 
apparently  gave  out.  His  speed  deserted  him;  he  ran  awk- 
wardly, and  limped.  The  savages  burst  out  into  full  cry  like  a 
pack  of  hungry  wolves.  They  had  already  emptied  their  rifles 
at  him,  and  now,  supposing  one  of  the  shots  had  taken  effect, 
redoubled  their  efforts,  making  the  forest  ring  with  their  short, 
savage  yells.  One  gaunt,  dark-bodied  Indian  with  a  long,  power- 
ful, springy  stride  easily  distanced  his  companions,  and,  evi- 
dently sure  of  gaining  the  coveted  scalp  of  the  borderman, 
rapidly  closed  the  gap  between  them  as  he  swung  aloft  his 
tomahawk,  yelling  the  war-cry. 

The  sight  on  Jonathan's  rifle  had  several  times  covered  this 
savage's  dark  face;  but  when  he  was  about  to  press  the  trigger 
Wetzel's  fleeting  form,  also  in  line  with  the  savage,  made  it 
extremely  hazardous  to  take  a  shot. 

Jonathan  stepped  from  his  place  of  concealment,  and  let  out 
a  yell  that  pealed  high  over  the  cries  of  the  savages. 

Wetzel  suddenly  dropped  flat  on  the  ground. 

With  a  whipping  crack  of  Jonathan's  rifle,  the  big  Indian 
plunged  forward  on  his  face. 

The  other  Indians,  not  fifty  yards  away,  stopped  aghast  at 
the  fate  of  their  comrade,  and  were  about  to  seek  the  shelter 
of  trees  when,  with  his  terrible  yell,  Wetzel  sprang  up  and 
charged  upon  them.  He  had  left  his  rifle  where  he  fell;  but  his 
tomahawk  glittered  as  he  ran.  The  lameness  had  been  a  trick, 
for  now  he  covered  ground  with  a  swiftness  which  caused  his 
former  progress  to  seem  slow. 

The  Indians,  matured  and  seasoned  warriors  though  they 


204  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

were,  gave  but  one  glance  at  this  huge,  brown  figure  bearing 
down  upon  them  like  a  fiend,  and,  uttering  the  Indian  name  of 
Deathwind,  wavered,  broke  and  ran. 

One,  not  so  fleet  as  his  companion,  Wetzel  overtook  and  cut 
down  with  a  single  stroke.  The  other  gained  an  hundred-yard 
start  in  the  slight  interval  of  Wetzel's  attack,  and,  spurred  on 
by  a  pealing,  awful  cry  in  the  rear,  sped  swiftly  in  and  out 
among  the  trees  until  he  was  lost  to  view. 

Wetzel  scalped  the  two  dead  savages,  and,  after  returning  to 
regain  his  rifle,  joined  Jonathan  at  the  dead  oak. 

"Jack,  you  can  never  tell  how  things  is  comin'  out.  Thet  red- 
skin I  allowed  might  worry  us  a  bit,  fooled  me  as  slick  as  you 
ever  saw,  an'  I  hed  to  shoot  him.  Knowin'  it  was  a  case  of 
runnin',  I  just  cut  fer  this  oak,  drew  the  redskins'  fire,  an'  hed 
'em  arter  me  quicker  'n  you'd  say  Jack  Robinson.  I  was  hopin' 
you'd  be  here;  but  wasn't  sure  till  I'd  seen  your  rifle.  Then  I 
kinder  got  a  kink  in  my  leg  jest  to  coax  the  brutes  on." 

"Three  more  quiet,"  said  Jonathan  Zane.  "What  now?" 

"We've  headed  Legget,  an'  we'll  keep  nosin'  him  off  his  course. 
Already  he's  lookin'  fer  a  safe  campin'  place  for  the  night." 

"There  is  none  in  these  woods,  fer  him." 

"We  didn't  plan  this  gettin'  between  him  an'  his  camp;  but 
couldn't  be  better  fixed.  A  mile  farther  along  the  ridge,  is  a 
campin'  place,  with  a  spring  in  a  little  dell  close  under  a  big 
stone,  an'  well  wooded.  Legget's  headin'  straight  fer  it.  With 
a  couple  of  Injuns  guardin'  thet  spot,  he'll  think  he's  safe.  But 
I  know  the  place,  an'  can  crawl  to  thet  rock  the  darkest  night 

thet  ever  was  an'  never  crack  a  stick." 

****** 

In  the  gray  of  the  deepening  twilight  Jonathan  Zane  sat  alone. 
An  owl  hooted  dismally  in  the  dark  woods  beyond  the  thicket 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  20$ 

where  the  borderman  crouched  waiting  for  Wetzel.  His  listen- 
ing ear  detected  a  soft,  rustling  sound  like  the  play  of  a  mole 
under  the  leaves.  A  branch  trembled  and  swung  back;  a  soft 
footstep  followed  and  Wetzel  came  into  the  retreat. 

"Well?"  asked  Jonathan  impatiently,  as  Wetzel  deliberately 
sat  down  and  laid  his  rifle  across  his  knees. 

"Easy,  Jack,  easy.  We've  an  hour  to  wait." 

"The  time  I've  already  waited  has  been  long  for  me." 

"They're  thar,"  said  Wetzel  grimly. 

"How  far  from  here?" 

"A  half-hour's  slow  crawl." 

"Close  by?"  hissed  Jonathan. 

"Too  near  fer  you  to  get  excited." 

"Let  us  go;  it's  as  light  now  as  in  the  gray  of  mornin'." 

"Mornin'  would  be  best.  Injuns  get  sleepy  along  towards  day. 
I've  ever  found  thet  time  the  best.  But  we'll  be  lucky  if  we  ketch 
these  redskins  asleep." 

"Lew,  I  can't  wait  here  all  night.  I  won't  leave  her  longer 
with  that  renegade.  I've  got  to  free  or  kill  her." 

"Most  likely  it'll  be  the  last,"  said  Wetzel  simply. 

"Well,  so  be  it  then,"  and  the  borderman  hung  his  head. 

"You  needn't  worry  none,  'bout  Helen.  I  jest  had  a  good  look 
at  her,  not  half  an  hour  back.  She's  fagged  out;  but  full  of  spunk 
yet.  I  seen  thet  when  Brandt  went  near  her.  Legget's  got  his 
hands  full  jest  now  with  the  redskins.  He's  hevin'  trouble 
keepin'  them  on  this  slow  trail.  I  ain't  sayin'  they're  skeered; 
but  they're  mighty  restless." 

"Will  you  take  the  chance  now?" 

"I  reckon  you  needn't  hev  asked  thet." 

"Tell  me  the  lay  of  the  land." 

"Wai,  if  we  get  to  this  rock  I  spoke  'bout,  we'll  be  right  over 


206  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

'em.  It's  ten  feet  high,  an'  we  can  jump  straight  amongst  'em. 
Most  likely  two  or  three'll  be  guardin'  the  openin'  which  is  a 
little  ways  to  the  right.  Ther's  a  big  tree,  the  only  one,  low 
down  by  the  spring.  Helen's  under  it,  half-sittin',  half-leanin' 
against  the  roots.  When  I  first  looked,  her  hands  were  free;  but 
I  saw  Brandt  bind  her  feet.  An'  he  had  to  get  an  Injun  to  help 
him,  fer  she  kicked  like  a  spirited  little  filly.  There's  moss  under 
the  tree  an'  there's  where  the  redskins'll  lay  down  to  rest." 

"I've  got  that;  now  out  with  your  plan." 

"Wai,  I  calkilate  it's  this.  The  moon'll  be  up  in  about  an 
hour.  We'll  crawl  as  we've  never  crawled  afore,  because  Helen's 
life  depends  as  much  on  our  not  makin'  a  noise,  as  it  does  on 
fightin'  when  the  time  comes.  If  they  hear  us  afore  we're  ready 
to  shoot,  the  lass'll  be  tomahawked  quicker'n  lightnin'.  If  they 
don't  suspicion  us,  when  the  right  moment  comes  you  shoot 
Brandt,  yell  louder 'n  you  ever  did  afore,  leap  amongst  'em,  an' 
cut  down  the  first  Injun  thet's  near  you  on  your  way  to  Helen. 
Swing  her  over  your  arm,  an'  dig  into  the  woods." 

"Well?"  asked  Jonathan  when  Wetzel  finished. 

"That's  all,"  the  borderman  replied  grimly. 

"An'  leave  you  all  alone  to  fight  Legget  an'  the  rest  of  'em?" 

"I  reckon." 

"Not  to  be  thought  of." 

"Ther's  no  other  way." 

"There  must  be!  Let  me  think;  I  can't,  I'm  not  myself." 

"No  other  way,"  repeated  Wetzel  curtly. 

Jonathan's  broad  hand  fastened  on  Wetzel's  shoulder  and 
wheeled  him  around. 

"Have  I  ever  left  you  alone?" 

"This's  different,"  and  Wetzel  turned  away  again.  His  voice 
was  cold  and  hard. 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  207 

"How  is  it  different?  We've  had  the  same  thing  to  do,  almost, 
more  than  once." 

"We've  never  had  as  bad  a  bunch  to  handle  as  Legget's, 
They're  lookin'  fer  us,  an'  will  be  hard  to  beat." 

"That's  no  reason." 

"We  never  had  to  save  a  girl  one  of  us  loved." 

Jonathan  was  silent. 

"I  said  this'd  be  my  last  trail,"  continued  Wetzel.  "I  felt  it, 
an'  I  know  it'll  be  yours." 

"Why?" 

"If  you  get  away  with  the  girl  she'll  keep  you  at  home,  an' 
it'll  be  well.  If  you  don't  succeed,  you'll  die  tryin',  so  it's  sure 
your  last  trail." 

Wetzel's  deep,  cold  voice  rang  with  truth. 

"Lew,  I  can't  run  away  an'  leave  you  to  fight  those  devils 
alone,  after  all  these  years  we've  been  together,  I  can't." 

"No  other  chance  to  save  the  lass." 

Jonathan  quivered  with  the  force  of  his  emotion.  His  black 
eyes  glittered;  his  hands  grasped  at  nothing.  Once  more  he  was 
between  love  and  duty.  Again  he  fought  over  the  old  battle, 
but  this  time  it  left  him  weak. 

"You  love  the  big-eyed  lass,  don't  you?"  asked  Wetzel,  turn- 
ing with  softened  face  and  voice. 

"I  have  gone  mad!"  cried  Jonathan,  tortured  by  the  simple 
question  of  his  friend.  Those  big,  dear,  wonderful  eyes  he  loved 
so  well,  looked  at  him  now  from  the  gloom  of  the  thicket.  The 
old,  beautiful,  soft  glow,  the  tender  light,  was  there,  and  more, 
a  beseeching  prayer  to  save  her. 

Jonathan  bowed  his  head,  ashamed  to  let  his  friend  see  the 
tears  that  dimmed  his  eyes. 

"Jack,  we've  follered  the  trail  fer  years  together.  Always  you've 


2O8  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

been  true  an'  staunch.  This  is  our  last,  but  whatever  bides  we'll 
break  up  Legget's  band  to-night,  an'  the  border '11  be  cleared, 
mebbe,  for  always.  At  least  his  race  is  run.  Let  thet  content  you. 
Our  time'd  have  to  come,  sooner  or  later,  so  why  not  now? 
I  know  how  it  is,  that  you  want  to  stick  by  me;  but  the  lass 
draws  you  to  her.  I  understand,  an'  want  you  to  save  her.  Mebbe 
you  never  dreamed  it;  but  I  can  tell  jest  how  you  feel.  All  the 
tremblin',  an'  softness,  an'  sweetness,  an'  delight  you've  got  for 
thet  girl,  is  no  mystery  to  Lew  Wetzel." 

"You  loved  a  lass?" 

Wetzel  bowed  his  head,  as  perhaps  he  had  never  before  in  all 
his  life. 

"Betty — always,"  he  answered  softly. 

"My  sister!"  exclaimed  Jonathan,  and  then  his  hand  closed 
hard  on  his  comrade's,  his  mind  going  back  to  many  things, 
strange  in  the  past,  but  now  explained.  Wetzel  had  revealed 
his  secret. 

"An'  it's  been  all  my  life,  since  she  wasn't  higher  'n  my  knee. 
There  was  a  time  when  I  might  hev  been  closer  to  you  than  I 
am  now.  But  I  was  a  mad  an'  bloody  Injun  hater,  so  I  never  let 
her  know  till  I  seen  it  was  too  late.  Wai,  wal,  no  more  of  me.  I 
only  told  it  fer  you." 

Jonathan  was  silent. 

"An'  now  to  come  back  where  we  left  off,"  continued  Wetzel. 
"Let's  take  a  more  hopeful  look  at  this  comin'  fight.  Sure  I  said 
it  was  my  last  trail,  but  mebbe  it's  not.  You  can  never  tell. 
Feelin'  as  we  do,  I  imagine  they've  no  odds  on  us.  Never  in 
my  life  did  I  say  to  you,  least  of  all  to  any  one  else,  what  I  was 
goin'  to  do;  but  I'll  tell  it  now.  If  I  land  uninjured  amongst  thet 
bunch,  I'll  kill  them  all." 

The  giant  borderman's  low  voice  hissed,  and  stung.  His  eyes 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  20Q 

glittered  with  unearthly  fire.  His  face  was  cold  and  gray.  He 
spread  out  his  brawny  arms  and  clenched  his  huge  fists,  mak- 
ing the  muscles  of  his  broad  shoulders  roll  and  bulge. 

"I  hate  the  thought,  Lew,  I  hate  the  thought.  Ain't  there  no 
other  way?" 

"No  other  way." 

"I'll  do  it,  Lew,  because  I'd  do  the  same  for  you;  because  I 
have  to,  because  I  love  her;  but  God!  it  hurts." 

"Thet's  right,"  answered  Wetzel,  his  deep  voice  softening 
until  it  was  singularly  low  and  rich.  "I'm  glad  you've  come  to  it. 
An'  sure  it  hurts.  I  want  you  to  feel  so  at  leavin'  me  to  go  it 
alone.  If  we  both  get  out  alive,  I'll  come  many  times  to  see  you 
an'  Helen.  If  you  live  an'  I  don't,  think  of  me  sometimes,  think 
of  the  trails  we've  crossed  together.  When  the  fall  comes  with 
its  soft,  cool  air,  an'  smoky  mornin's  an'  starry  nights,  when 
the  wind's  sad  among  the  bare  branches,  an'  the  leaves  drop 
down,  remember  they're  fallin'  on  my  grave." 

Twilight  darkened  into  gloom;  the  red  tinge  in  the  west 
changed  to  opal  light;  through  the  trees  over  a  dark  ridge  a 
rim  of  silver  glinted  and  moved. 

The  moon  had  risen;  the  hour  was  come. 

The  bordermen  tightened  their  belts,  replaced  their  leggings, 
tied  their  hunting  coats,  loosened  their  hatchets,  looked  to  the 
priming  of  their  rifles,  and  were  ready. 

Wetzel  walked  twenty  paces  and  turned.  His  face  was  white 
in  the  moonlight;  his  dark  eyes  softened  into  a  look  of  love 
as  he  gripped  his  comrade's  outstretched  hand. 

Then  he  dropped  flat  on  the  ground,  carefully  saw  to  the 
position  of  his  rifle,  and  began  to  creep.  Jonathan  kept  close 
at  his  heels. 

Slowly  but  steadily  they  crawled,  minute  after  minute.  The 


2IO  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

hazel-nut  bushes  above  them  had  not  yet  shed  their  leaves; 
the  ground  was  clean  and  hard,  and  the  course  fatefully  perfect 
for  their  deadly  purpose. 

A  slight  rustling  of  their  buckskin  garments  sounded  like  the 
rustling  of  leaves  in  a  faint  breeze. 

The  moon  came  out  above  the  trees  and  still  Wetzel  advanced 
softly,  steadily,  surely. 

The  owl,  lonely  sentinel  of  that  wood,  hooted  dismally.  Even 
his  night  eyes,  which  made  the  darkness  seem  clear  as  day, 
missed  those  gliding  figures.  Even  he,  sure  guardian  of  the 
wilderness,  failed  the  savages. 

Jonathan  felt  soft  moss  beneath  him;  he  was  now  in  the  woods 
under  the  trees.  The  thicket  had  been  passed. 

Wetzel's  moccasin  pressed  softly  against  Jonathan's  head.  The 
first  signal! 

Jonathan  crawled  forward,  and  slightly  raised  himself. 

He  was  on  a  rock.  The  trees  were  thick  and  gloomy.  Below, 
the  little  hollow  was  almost  in  the  wan  moonbeams.  Dark 
figures  lay  close  together.  Two  savages  paced  noiselessly  to  and 
fro.  A  slight  form  rolled  in  a  blanket  lay  against  a  tree. 

Jonathan  felt  his  arm  gently  squeezed. 

The  second  signal! 

Slowly  he  thrust  forward  his  rifle,  and  raised  it  in  unison 
with  Wetzel's.  Slowly  he  rose  to  his  feet  as  if  the  same  muscles 
guided  them  both. 

Over  his  head  a  twig  snapped.  In  the  darkness  he  had  not 
seen  a  low  branch. 

The  Indian  guards  stopped  suddenly,  and  became  motionless 
as  stone. 

They  had  heard;  but  too  late. 

With  the  blended  roar  of  the  rifles  both  dropped,  lifeless. 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  211 

Almost  under  the  spouting  flame  and  white  cloud  of  smoke, 
Jonathan  leaped  behind  Wetzel,  over  the  bank.  His  yells  were 
mingled  with  Wetzel's  vengeful  cry.  Like  leaping  shadows  the 
bordermen  were  upon  their  foes. 

An  Indian  sprang  up,  raised  a  weapon,  and  fell  beneath 
Jonathan's  savage  blow,  to  rise  no  more.  Over  his  prostrate 
body  the  borderman  bounded.  A  dark,  nimble  form  darted 
upon  the  captive.  He  swung  high  a  blade  that  shone  like  silver 
in  the  moonlight.  His  shrill  war-cry  of  death  rang  out  with 
Helen's  scream  of  despair.  Even  as  he  swung  back  her  head 
with  one  hand  in  her  long  hair,  his  arm  descended;  but  it  fell 
upon  the  borderman's  body.  Jonathan  and  the  Indian  rolled 
upon  the  moss.  There  was  a  terrific  struggle,  a  whirling  blade, 
a  dull  blow  which  silenced  the  yell,  and  the  borderman  rose 
alone. 

He  lifted  Helen  as  if  she  were  a  child,  leaped  the  brook,  and 
plunged  into  the  thicket. 

The  noise  of  the  fearful  conflict  he  left  behind,  swelled  high 
and  hideously  on  the  night  air.  Above  the  shrill  cries  of  the 
Indians,  and  the  furious  yells  of  Legget,  rose  the  mad,  booming 
roar  of  Wetzel.  No  rifle  cracked;  but  sodden  blows,  the  clash 
of  steel,  the  threshing  of  struggling  men,  told  of  the  dreadful 
strife. 

Jonathan  gained  the  woods,  sped  through  the  moonlit  glades, 
and  far  on  under  light  and  shadow. 

The  shrill  cries  ceased;  only  the  hoarse  yells  and  the  mad  roar 
could  be  heard.  Gradually  these  also  died  away,  and  the  forest 
was  still. 


212  THE  LAST  TRAIL 


CHAPTER  XXI 

NEXT  MORNING,  when  the  mist  was  breaking  and  rolling  away 
under  the  warm  rays  of  the  Indian-summer  sun,  Jonathan  Zane 
beached  his  canoe  on  the  steep  bank  before  Fort  Henry.  A  pio- 
neer, attracted  by  the  borderman's  halloo,  ran  to  the  bluff  and 
sounded  the  alarm  with  shrill  whoops.  Among  the  hurrying, 
brown-clad  figures  that  answered  this  summons,  was  Colonel 
Zane. 

"It's  Jack,  kurnel,  an'  he's  got  her!"  cried  one. 

The  doughty  colonel  gained  the  bluff  to  see  his  brother 
climbing  the  bank  with  a  white-faced  girl  in  his  arms. 

"Well?"  he  asked,  looking  darkly  at  Jonathan.  Nothing 
kindly  or  genial  was  visible  in  his  manner  now;  rather  grim  and 
forbidding  he  seemed,  thus  showing  he  had  the  same  blood  m 
his  veins  as  the  borderman. 

"Lend  a  hand,"  said  Jonathan.  "As  far  as  I  know  she's  not 
hurt." 

They  carried  Helen  toward  Colonel  Zane's  cabin.  Many 
women  of  the  settlement  saw  them  as  they  passed,  and  looked 
gravely  at  one  another,  but  none  spoke.  This  return  of  an  ab- 
ducted girl  was  by  no  means  a  strange  event. 

"Somebody  run  for  Sheppard,"  ordered  Colonel  Zane,  as  they 
entered  his  cabin. 

Betty,  who  was  in  the  sitting-room,  sprang  up  and  cried:  "Oh! 
Eb!  Eb!  Don't  say  she's " 

"No,  no,  Betts,  she's  all  right.  Where's  my  wife?  Ah!  Bess, 
here,  get  to  work." 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  213 

The  colonel  left  Helen  in  the  tender,  skilful  hands  of  his  wife 
and  sister,  and  followed  Jonathan  into  the  kitchen. 

"I  was  just  ready  for  breakfast  when  I  heard  some  one  yell," 
said  he.  "Come,  Jack,  eat  something." 

They  ate  in  silence.  From  the  sitting-room  came  excited 
whispers,  a  joyous  cry  from  Betty,  and  a  faint  voice.  Then  heavy, 
hurrying  footsteps,  followed  by  Sheppard's  words  of  thanks- 
giving. 

"Where's  Wetzel?"  began  Colonel  Zane. 

The  borderman  shook  his  head  gloomily. 

"Where  did  you  leave  him?" 

"We  jumped  Legget's  bunch  last  night,  when  the  moon  was 
about  an  hour  high.  I  reckon  about  fifteen  miles  northeast.  I 
got  away  with  the  lass." 

"Ah!  Left  Lew  fighting?" 

The  borderman  answered  the  question  with  bowed  head. 

"You  got  off  well.  Not  a  hurt  that  I  can  see,  and  more  than 
lucky  to  save  Helen.  Well,  Jack,  what  do  you  think  about  Lew?" 

"I'm  goin'  back,"  replied  Jonathan. 

"No!  no!" 

The  door  opened  to  admit  Mrs.  Zane.  She  looked  bright  and 
cheerful,  "Hello,  Jack;  glad  you're  home.  Helen's  all  right,  only 
faint  from  hunger  and  over-exertion.  I  want  something  for  her 
to  eat — well!  you  men  didn't  leave  much." 

Colonel  Zane  went  into  the  sitting-room.  Sheppard  sat  beside 
the  couch  where  Helen  lay,  white  and  wan.  Betty  and  Nell  were 
looking  on  with  their  hearts  in  their  eyes.  Silas  Zane  was  there, 
and  his  wife,  with  several  women  neighbors. 

"Betty,  go  fetch  Jack  in  here,"  whispered  the  colonel  in  his 
sister's  ear.  "Drag  him,  if  you  have  to,"  he  added  fiercely. 

The  young  woman  left  the  room,  to  reappear  directly  with 
her  brother.  He  came  in  reluctantly. 


214  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

As  the  stern-faced  borderman  crossed  the  threshold  a  smile, 
beautiful  to  see,  dawned  in  Helen's  eyes. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you're  comin'  round,"  said  Jonathan,  but  he 
spoke  dully  as  if  his  mind  was  on  other  things. 

"She's  a  little  flighty;  but  a  night's  sleep  will  cure  that,"  cried 
Mrs.  Zane  from  the  kitchen. 

"What  do  you  think?"  interrupted  the  colonel.  "Jack's  not 
satisfied  to  get  back  with  Helen  unharmed,  and  a  whole  skin 
himself;  but  he's  going  on  the  trail  again." 

"No,  Jack,  no,  no!"  cried  Betty. 

"What's  that  I  hear?"  asked  Mrs.  Zane  as  she  came  in.  "Jack's 
going  out  again?  Well,  all  I  want  to  say  is  that  he's  as  mad  as 
a  March  hare." 

"Jonathan,  look  here,"  said  Silas  seriously.  "Can't  you  stay 
home  now?" 

"Jack,  listen,"  whispered  Betty,  going  close  to  him.  "Not 
one  of  us  ever  expected  to  see  either  you  or  Helen  again,  and 
oh!  we  are  so  happy.  Do  not  go  away  again.  You  are  a  man;  you 
do  not  know,  you  cannot  understand  all  a  woman  feels.  She 
must  sit  and  wait,  and  hope,  and  pray  for  the  safe  return  of 
husband  or  brother  or  sweetheart.  The  long  days!  Oh,  the  long 
sleepless  nights,  with  the  wail  of  the  wind  in  the  pines,  and  the 
rain  on  the  roof!  It  is  maddening.  Do  not  leave  us!  Do  not 
leave  me!  Do  not  leave  Helen!  Say  you  will  not,  Jack." 

To  these  entreaties  the  borderman  remained  silent.  He  stood 
leaning  on  his  rifle,  a  tall,  dark,  strangely  sad  and  stern  man. 

"Helen,  beg  him  to  stay!"  implored  Betty. 

Colonel  Zane  took  Helen's  hand,  and  stroked  it.  "Yes,"  he 
said,  "you  ask  him,  lass.  I'm  sure  you  can  persuade  him  to  stay." 

Helen  raised  her  head.  "Is  Brandt  dead?"  she  whispered 
faintly. 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  215 

Still  the  borderman  failed  to  speak,  but  his  silence  was  not 
an  affirmative. 

"You  said  you  loved  me,"  she  cried  wildly.  "You  said  you 
loved  me,  yet  you  didn't  kill  that  monster!" 

The  borderman,  moving  quickly  like  a  startled  Indian,  went 
out  of  the  door. 

****** 

Once  more  Jonathan  Zane  entered  the  gloomy,  quiet  aisles 
of  the  forest  with  his  soft,  tireless  tread  hardly  stirring  the  leaves. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  he  had  long  left  Two  Islands 
behind,  and  arrived  at  the  scene  of  Mordaunt's  death.  Satisfied 
with  the  distance  he  had  traversed,  he  crawled  into  a  thicket  to 
rest. 

Daybreak  found  him  again  on  the  trail.  He  made  a  short  cut 
over  the  ridges  and  by  the  time  the  mist  had  lifted  from  the 
valley  he  was  within  stalking  distance  of  the  glade.  He  ap- 
proached this  in  the  familiar,  slow,  cautious  manner,  and  halted 
behind  the  big  rock  from  which  he  and  Wetzel  had  leaped.  The 
wood  was  solemnly  quiet.  No  twittering  of  birds  could  be  heard. 
The  only  sign  of  life  was  a  gaunt  timber-wolf  slinking  away 
amid  the  foliage.  Under  the  big  tree  the  savage  who  had  been 
killed  as  he  would  have  murdered  Helen,  lay  a  crumpled  mass 
where  he  had  fallen.  Two  dead  Indians  were  in  the  center  of 
the  glade,  and  on  the  other  side  were  three  more  bloody,  life- 
less forms.  Wetzel  was  not  there,  nor  Legget,  nor  Brandt. 

"I  reckoned  so,"  muttered  Jonathan  as  he  studied  the  scene. 
The  grass  had  been  trampled,  the  trees  barked,  the  bushes 
crushed  aside. 

Jonathan  went  out  of  the  glade  a  short  distance,  and,  circling 
it,  began  to  look  for  Wetzel's  trail.  He  found  it,  and  near  the 
light  footprints  of  his  comrade  were  the  great,  broad  moccasin 


2l6  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

tracks  of  the  outlaw.  Further  searching  disclosed  the  fact  that 
Brandt  must  have  traveled  in  line  with  the  others. 

With  the  certainty  that  Wetzel  had  killed  three  of  the  In- 
dians, and,  in  some  wonderful  manner  characteristic  of  him, 
routed  the  outlaws  of  whom  he  was  now  in  pursuit,  Jonathan's 
smoldering  emotion  burst  forth  into  full  flame.  Love  for  his 
old  comrade,  deadly  hatred  of  the  outlaws,  and  passionate 
thirst  for  their  blood,  rioted  in  his  heart. 

Like  a  lynx  scenting  its  quarry,  the  borderman  started  on  the 
trail,  tireless  and  unswervable.  The  traces  left  by  the  fleeing  out- 
laws and  their  pursuer  were  plain  to  Jonathan.  It  was  not 
necessary  for  him  to  stop.  Legget  and  Brandt,  seeking  to  escape 
the  implacable  Nemesis,  were  traveling  with  all  possible  speed, 
regardless  of  the  broad  trail  such  hurried  movements  left  be- 
hind. They  knew  full  well  it  would  be  difficult  to  throw  this 
wolf  off  the  scent;  understood  that  if  any  attempt  was  made  to 
ambush  the  trail,  they  must  cope  with  woodcraft  keener  than 
an  Indian's.  Flying  in  desperation,  they  hoped  to  reach  the  rocky 
retreat,  where,  like  foxes  in  their  burrows,  they  believed  them- 
selves safe. 

When  the  sun  sloped  low  toward  the  western  horizon,  length- 
ening Jonathan's  shadow,  he  slackened  pace.  He  was  entering 
the  rocky,  rugged  country  which  marked  the  approach  to  the 
distant  Alleghenies.  From  the  top  of  a  ridge  he  took  his  bear- 
ings, deciding  that  he  was  within  a  few  miles  of  Legget's  hid- 
ing-place. 

At  the  foot  of  this  ridge,  where  a  murmuring  brook  sped 
softly  over  its  bed,  he  halted.  Here  a  number  of  horses  had 
i  3rded  the  brook.  They  were  iron-shod,  which  indicated  almost 
\.o  a  certainty,  that  they  were  stolen  horses,  and  in  the  hands  of 
r&dians. 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  217 

Jonathan  saw  where  the  trail  of  the  steeds  was  merged  into 
that  of  the  outlaws.  He  suspected  that  the  Indians  and  Legget 
had  held  a  short  council.  As  he  advanced  the  borderman  found 
only  the  faintest  impression  of  Wetzel's  trail.  Legget  and 
Brandt  no  longer  left  any  token  of  their  course.  They  were  rid- 
ing the  horses. 

All  the  borderman  cared  to  know  was  if  Wetzel  still  pursued. 
He  passed  on  swiftly  up  a  hill,  through  a  wood  of  birches  where 
the  trail  showed  on  a  line  of  broken  ferns,  then  out  upon  a  low 
ridge  where  patches  of  grass  grew  sparsely.  Here  he  saw  in  this 
last  ground  no  indication  of  his  comrade's  trail;  nothing  was  to 
be  seen  save  the  imprints  of  the  horses'  hoofs.  Jonathan  halted 
behind  the  nearest  underbrush.  This  sudden  move  on  the  part 
of  Wetzel  was  token  that,  suspecting  an  ambush,  he  had  made 
a  detour  somewhere,  probably  in  the  grove  of  birches. 

All  the  while  his  eyes  searched  the  long,  barren  reach  ahead. 
No  thicket,  fallen  tree,  or  splintered  rocks,  such  as  Indians 
utilized  for  an  ambush,  could  be  seen.  Indians  always  sought 
the  densely  matted  underbrush,  a  windfall,  or  rocky  retreat 
and  there  awaited  a  pursuer.  It  was  one  of  the  borderman's 
tricks  of  woodcraft  that  he  could  recognize  such  places. 

Far  beyond  the  sandy  ridge  Jonathan  came  to  a  sloping, 
wooded  hillside,  upon  which  were  scattered  big  rocks,  some 
mossy  and  lichen-covered,  and  one,  a  giant  boulder,  with  a 
crown  of  ferns  and  laurel  gracing  its  flat  surface.  It  was  such  a 
place  as  the  savages  would  select  for  ambush.  He  knew,  how- 
ever, that  if  an  Indian  had  hidden  himself  there  Wetzel  would 
have  discovered  him.  When  opposite  the  rock  Jonathan  saw  a 
broken  fern  hanging  over  the  edge.  The  heavy  trail  of  the 
horses  ran  close  beside  it. 

Then  with  that   thoroughness   of  search  which   made  the 


2l8  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

borderman  what  he  was,  Jonathan  leaped  upon  the  rock.  There, 
lying  in  the  midst  of  the  ferns,  lay  an  Indian  with  sullen,  som- 
ber face  set  in  the  repose  of  death.  In  his  side  was  a  small  bullet 
hole. 

Jonathan  examined  the  savage's  rifle.  It  had  been  discharged. 
The  rock,  the  broken  fern,  the  dead  Indian,  the  discharged 
rifle,  told  the  story  of  that  woodland  tragedy. 

Wetzel  had  discovered  the  ambush.  Leaving  the  trail,  he  had 
tricked  the  redskin  into  firing,  then  getting  a  glimpse  of  the 
Indian's  red  body  through  the  sights  of  his  fatal  weapon,  the 
deed  was  done. 

With  greater  caution  Jonathan  advanced  once  more.  Not  far 
beyond  the  rock  he  found  Wetzel's  trail.  The  afternoon  was 
drawing  to  a  close.  He  could  not  travel  much  farther,  yet  he 
kept  on,  hoping  to  overtake  his  comrade  before  darkness  set  in. 
From  time  to  time  he  whistled;  but  got  no  answering  signal. 

When  the  tracks  of  the  horses  were  nearly  hidden  by  the 
gathering  dusk,  Jonathan  decided  to  halt  for  the  night.  He 
whistled  one  more  note,  louder  and  clearer,  and  awaited  the  re- 
sult with  strained  ears.  The  deep  silence  of  the  wilderness  pre- 
vailed, suddenly  to  be  broken  by  a  faint,  far-away,  melancholy 
call  of  the  hermit-thrush.  It  was  the  answering  signal  the  bor- 
derman had  hoped  to  hear. 

Not  many  moments  elapsed  before  he  heard  another  call,  low, 
and  near  at  hand,  to  which  he  replied.  The  bushes  parted  noise- 
lessly on  his  left,  and  the  tall  form  of  Wetzel  appeared  silently 
out  of  the  gloom. 

The  two  gripped  hands  in  silence. 

"Hev  you  any  meat?"  Wetzel  asked,  and  as  Jonathan  handed 
him  his  knapsack,  he  continued,  "I  was  kinder  lookin'  fer  you. 
Did  you  get  out  all  right  with  the  lass?" 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  2IO 

"Nary  a  scratch." 

The  giant  borderman  grunted  his  satisfaction. 

"How'd  Legget  and  Brandt  get  away?"  asked  Jonathan. 

"Cut  an'  run  like  scared  bucks.  Never  got  a  hand  on  either  of 
'em." 

"How  many  redskins  did  they  meet  back  here  a  spell?" 

"They  was  seven;  but  now  there  are  only  six,  an'  all  snug  in 
Legget's  place  by  this  time." 

"I  reckon  we're  near  his  den." 

"We're  not  far  off." 

Night  soon  closing  down  upon  the  bordermen  found  them 
wrapped  in  slumber,  as  if  no  deadly  foes  were  near  at  hand. 
The  soft  night  wind  sighed  dismally  among  the  bare  trees.  A 
few  bright  stars  twinkled  overhead.  In  the  darkness  of  the  for- 
est the  bordermen  were  at  home. 


CHAPTER  XXII 


IN  Legget's  rude  log  cabin  a  fire  burned  low,  lightening  the 
forms  of  the  two  border  outlaws,  and  showing  in  the  back- 
ground the  dark  forms  of  Indians  sitting  motionless  on  the 
floor.  Their  dusky  eyes  emitted  a  baleful  glint,  seemingly  a  re- 
flection of  their  savage  souls  caught  by  the  firelight.  Legget  wore 
a  look  of  ferocity  and  sullen  fear  strangely  blended.  Brandt's 
face  was  hard  and  haggard,  his  lips  set,  his  gray  eyes  smolder- 
ing. 

"Safe?"  he  hissed.  "Safe  you  say?  You'll  see  that  it's  the  same 
now  as  on  the  other  night,  when  those  border-tigers  jumped  us 


22O  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

and  we  ran  like  cowards.  I'd  have  fought  it  out  here,  but  for 
you." 

"Thet  man  Wetzel  is  ravin'  mad,  I  tell  you,"  growled  Legget. 
"I  reckon  I've  stood  my  ground  enough  to  know  I  ain't  no 
coward.  But  this  fellar's  crazy.  He  hed  the  Injuns  slashin'  each 
other  like  a  pack  of  wolves  round  a  buck." 

"He's  no  more  mad  than  you  or  I,"  declared  Brandt.  "I  know 
all  about  him.  His  moaning  in  the  woods,  and  wild  yells  are 
only  tricks.  He  knows  the  Indian  nature,  and  he  makes  their 
very  superstition  and  religion  aid  him  in  his  fighting.  I  told  you 
what  he'd  do.  Didn't  I  beg  you  to  kill  Zane  when  we  had  a 
chance?  Wetzel  would  never  have  taken  our  trail  alone.  Now 
they've  beat  me  out  of  the  girl,  and  as  sure  as  death  will  round 
us  up  here." 

"You  don't  believe  they'll  rush  us  here?"  asked  Legget. 

"They're  too  keen  to  take  foolish  chances,  but  something  will 
be  done  we  don't  expect.  Zane  was  a  prisoner  here;  he  had  a 
good  look  at  this  place,  and  you  can  gamble  he'll  remember." 

"Zane  must  hev  gone  back  to  Fort  Henry  with  the  girl." 

"Mark  what  I  say,  he'll  come  back!" 

"Wai,  we  kin  hold  this  place  against  all  the  men  Eb  Zane 
may  put  out." 

"He  won't  send  a  man,"  snapped  Brandt  passionately.  "Re- 
member this,  Legget,  we're  not  to  fight  against  soldiers,  settlers, 
or  hunters;  but  bordermen — understand — bordermen!  Such  as 
have  been  developed  right  here  on  this  bloody  frontier,  and  no- 
where else  on  earth.  They  haven't  fear  in  them.  Both  are  fleet 
as  deer  in  the  woods.  They  can't  be  seen  or  trailed.  They  can 
snuff  a  candle  with  a  rifle  ball  in  the  dark.  I've  seen  Zane  do  it 
three  times  at  a  hundred  yards.  And  Wetzel!  He  wouldn't 
waste  powder  on  practicing.  They  can't  be  ambushed,  or  shaken. 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  221 

off  a  track;  they  take  the  scent  like  buzzards,  and  have  eyes 
like  eagles." 

"We  kin  slip  out  of  here  under  cover  of  night,"  suggested 
Legget. 

"Well,  what  then?  That's  all  they  want.  They'd  be  on  us 
again  by  sunset.  No!  we've  got  to  stand  our  ground  and  fight. 
We'll  stay  as  long  as  we  can;  but  they'll  rout  us  out  somehow, 
be  sure  of  that.  And  if  one  of  us  pokes  his  nose  out  to  the  day- 
light, it  will  be  shot  off." 

"You're  sore,  an'  you've  lost  your  nerve,"  said  Legget  harshly. 
"Sore  at  me  'cause  I  got  sweet  on  the  girl.  Ho!  ho!" 

Brandt  shot  a  glance  at  Legget  which  boded  no  good.  His 
strong  hands  clenched  in  an  action  betraying  the  reckless  rage 
in  his  heart.  Then  he  carefully  removed  his  hunting  coat,  and 
examined  his  wound.  He  retied  the  bandage,  muttering  gloom- 
ily, "I'm  so  weak  as  to  be  light-headed.  If  this  cut  opens  again, 
it's  all  day  for  me." 

After  that  the  inmates  of  the  hut  were  quiet.  The  huge  out- 
law bowed  his  shaggy  head  for  a  while,  and  then  threw  himself 
on  a  pile  of  hemlock  boughs.  Brandt  was  not  long  in  seeking 
rest.  Soon  both  were  fast  asleep.  Two  of  the  savages  passed  out 
with  cat-like  step,  leaving  the  door  open.  The  fire  had  burned 
low,  leaving  a  bed  of  dead  coals.  Outside  in  the  dark  a  water- 
fall splashed  softly. 

The  darkest  hour  came,  and  passed,  and  paled  slowly  to  gray. 
Birds  began  to  twitter.  Through  the  door  of  the  cabin  the  light 
of  day  streamed  in.  The  two  Indian  sentinels  were  building  a 
fire  on  the  stone  hearth.  One  by  one  the  other  savages  got  up, 
stretched  and  yawned,  and  began  the  business  of  the  day  by 
cooking  their  breakfast.  It  was,  apparently,  every  one  for  himself. 

Legget  arose,  shook  himself  like  a  shaggy  dog,  and  was  start- 


222  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

ing  for  the  door  when  one  of  the  sentinels  stopped  him.  Brandt, 
who  was  now  awake,  saw  the  action,  and  smiled. 

In  a  few  moments  Indians  and  outlaws  were  eating  for  break- 
fast roasted  strips  of  venison,  with  corn  meal  baked  brown,  which 
served  as  bread.  It  was  a  somber,  silent  group. 

Presently  the  shrill  neigh  of  a  horse  startled  them.  Following 
it,  the  whip-like  crack  of  a  rifle  stung  and  split  the  morning  air. 
Hard  on  this  came  an  Indian's  long,  wailing  death-cry. 

"Hah!"  exclaimed  Brandt. 

Legget  remained  immovable.  One  of  the  savages  peered  out 
through  a  little  port-hole  at  the  rear  of  the  hut.  The  others  con- 
tinued their  meal. 

"Whistler'll  come  in  presently  to  tell  us  who's  doin'  thet 
shootin',"  said  Legget.  "He's  a  keen  Injun." 

"He's  not  very  keen  now,"  replied  Brandt,  with  bitter  cer- 
tainty. "He's  what  the  settlers  call  a  good  Indian,  which  is  to  say, 
dead!" 

Legget  scowled  at  his  lieutenant. 

"I'll  go  an'  see,"  he  replied  and  seized  his  rifle. 

He  opened  the  door,  when  another  rifle-shot  rang  out.  A  bullet 
whistled  in  the  air,  grazing  the  outlaw's  shoulder,  and  imbedded 
itself  in  the  heavy  door-frame. 

Legget  leaped  back  with  a  curse. 

"Close  shave!"  said  Brandt  coolly.  "That  bullet  came,  prob- 
ably, straight  down  from  the  top  of  the  cliff.  Jack  Zane's  there. 
Wetzel  is  lower  down  watching  the  outlet.  We're  trapped." 

"Trapped,"  shouted  Legget  with  an  angry  leer.  "We  kin  live 
here  longer 'n  the  bordermen  kin.  We've  meat  on  hand,  an'  a 
good  spring  in  the  back  of  the  hut.  How'er  we  trapped?" 

"We  won't  live  twenty-four  hour?,"  declared  Brandt. 

"Why?" 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  223 

"Because  we'll  be  routed  out.  They'll  find  some  way  to  do  it, 
and  we'll  never  have  another  chance  to  fight  in  the  open,  as  we 
had  the  other  night  when  they  came  after  the  girl.  From  now  on 
there'll  be  no  sleep,  no  time  to  eat,  the  nameless  fear  of  an  un- 
seen foe  who  can't  be  shaken  off,  marching  by  night,  hiding  and 

starving  by  day,  until !  I'd  rather  be  back  in  Fort  Henry  at 

Colonel  Zane's  mercy." 

Legget  turned  a  ghastly  face  toward  Brandt.  "Look  a  here. 
You're  takin'  a  lot  of  glee  in  sayin'  these  things.  I  believe  you've 
lost  your  nerve,  or  the  lettin'  out  of  a  little  blood  hes  made  you 
wobbly.  We've  Injuns  here,  an'  ought  to  be  a  match  fer  two 
men." 

Brandt  gazed  at  him  with  a  derisive  smile. 

"We  kin  go  out  an'  fight  these  fellars,"  continued  Legget.  "We 
might  try  their  own  game,  hidin'  an'  crawlin'  through  the 
woods." 

"We  two  would  have  to  go  it  alone.  If  you  still  had  your  trusty, 
trained  band  of  experienced  Indians,  I'd  say  that  would  be  just 
the  thing.  But  Ashbow  and  the  Chippewa  are  dead;  so  are  the 
others.  This  bunch  of  redskins  here  may  do  to  steal  a  few  horses; 
but  they  don't  amount  to  much  against  Zane  and  Wetzel.  Be- 
sides, they'll  cut  and  run  presently,  for  they're  scared  and  sus- 
picious. Look  at  the  chief;  ask  him." 

The  savage  Brandt  indicated  was  a  big  Indian  just  coming  into 
manhood.  His  swarthy  face  still  retained  some  of  the  frankness 
and  simplicity  of  youth. 

"Chief,"  said  Legget  in  the  Indian  tongue.  "The  great  pale- 
face hunter,  Deathwind,  lies  hid  in  the  woods." 

"Last  night  the  Shawnee  heard  the  wind  of  death  mourn 
through  the  trees,"  replied  the  chief  gloomily. 


224  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

"See!  What  did  I  say?"  cried  Brandt.  "The  superstitious  fooll 
He  would  begin  his  death-chant  almost  without  a  fight.  We 
can't  count  on  the  redskins.  What's  to  be  done?" 

The  outlaw  threw  himself  upon  the  bed  of  boughs,  and  Leg- 
get  sat  down  with  his  rifle  across  his  knees.  The  Indians  main- 
tained the  same  stoical  composure.  The  moments  dragged  by 
into  hours. 

"Ugh!"  suddenly  exclaimed  the  Indian  at  the  end  of  the  hut. 

Legget  ran  to  him,  and  acting  upon  a  motion  of  the  Indian's 
hand,  looked  out  through  the  little  port-hole. 

The  sun  was  high.  He  saw  four  of  the  horses  grazing  by  the 
brook;  then  gazed  scrutinizingly  from  the  steep  waterfall,  along 
the  green-stained  cliff  to  the  dark  narrow  cleft  in  the  rocks.  Here 
was  the  only  outlet  from  the  inclosure.  He  failed  to  discover 
anything  unusual. 

The  Indian  grunted  again,  and  pointed  upward. 

"Smoke!  There's  smoke  risin'  above  the  trees,"  cried  Legget. 
"Brandt,  come  here.  What's  thet  mean?" 

Brandt  hurried,  looked  out.  His  face  paled,  his  lower  jaw  pro- 
truded, quivered,  and  then  was  shut  hard.  He  walked  away,  put 
his  foot  on  a  bench  and  began  to  lace  his  leggings. 

"Wai?"  demanded  Legget. 

"The  game's  up!  Get  ready  to  run  and  be  shot  at,"  cried 
Brandt  with  a  hiss  of  passion. 

Almost  as  he  spoke  the  roof  of  the  hut  shook  under  a  heavy 
blow. 

"What's  thet?"  No  one  replied.  Legget  glanced  from  Brandt's 
cold,  determined  face  to  the  uneasy  savages.  They  were  restless, 
and  handling  their  weapons.  The  chief  strode  across  the  floor 
with  stealthy  steps. 

"Thud!" 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  225 

A  repetition  of  the  first  blow  caused  the  Indians  to  jump,  and 
drew  a  fierce  imprecation  from  their  outlaw  leader. 

Brandt  eyed  him  narrowly.  "It's  coming  to  you,  Legget.  They 
are  shooting  arrows  of  fire  into  the  roof  from  the  cliff.  Zane  is 
doin'  that.  He  can  make  a  bow  and  draw  one,  too.  We're  to  be 
burned  out.  Now,  damn  you!  take  your  medicine!  I  wanted  you 
to  kill  him  when  you  had  the  chance.  If  you  had  done  so  we'd 
never  have  come  to  this.  Burned  out,  do  you  get  that?  Burned 
out!" 

"Fire!"  exclaimed  Legget.  He  sat  down  as  if  the  strength  had 
left  his  legs. 

The  Indians  circled  around  the  room  like  caged  tigers. 

"Ugh!"  The  chief  suddenly  reached  up  and  touched  the  birch- 
bark  roof  of  the  hut. 

His  action  brought  the  attention  of  all  to  a  faint  crackling  of 
burning  wood. 

"It's  caught  all  right,"  cried  Brandt  in  a  voice  which  cut  the 
air  like  a  blow  from  a  knife. 

"I'll  not  be  smoked  like  a  ham,  fer  all  these  tricky  bordermen," 
roared  Legget.  Drawing  his  knife  he  hacked  at  the  heavy  buck- 
skin hinges  of  the  rude  door.  When  it  dropped  free  he  measured 
it  against  the  open  space.  Sheathing  the  blade,  he  grasped  his 
rifle  in  his  right  hand  and  swung  the  door  on  his  left  arm.  Heavy 
though  it  was  he  carried  it  easily.  The  roughly  hewn  planks 
afforded  a  capital  shield  for  all  except  the  lower  portion  of  his 
legs  and  feet.  He  went  out  of  the  hut  with  the  screen  of  wood 
between  himself  and  the  cliff,  calling  for  the  Indians  to  follow. 
They  gathered  behind  him,  breathing  hard,  clutching  their 
weapons,  and  seemingly  almost  crazed  by  excitement. 

Brandt,  with  no  thought  of  joining  this  foolhardy  attempt  to 
escape  from  the  inclosure,  ran  to  the  little  port-hole  that  he  might 


226  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

see  the  outcome.  Legget  and  his  five  redskins  were  running 
toward  the  narrow  outlet  in  the  gorge.  The  awkward  and  futile 
efforts  of  the  Indians  to  remain  behind  the  shield  were  almost 
pitiful.  They  crowded  each  other  for  favorable  positions,  but, 
struggle  as  they  might,  one  or  two  were  always  exposed  to  the 
cliff.  Suddenly  one,  pushed  to  the  rear,  stopped  simultaneously 
with  the  crack  of  a  rifle,  threw  up  his  arms  and  fell.  Another 
report,  differing  from  the  first,  rang  out.  A  savage  staggered 
from  behind  the  speeding  group  with  his  hand  at  his  side.  Then 
he  dropped  into  the  brook. 

Evidently  Legget  grasped  this  as  a  golden  opportunity,  for  he 
threw  aside  the  heavy  shield  and  sprang  forward,  closely  followed 
by  his  red-skinned  allies.  Immediately  they  came  near  the  cliff, 
where  the  trail  ran  into  the  gorge,  a  violent  shaking  of  the  dry 
ferns  overhead  made  manifest  the  activity  of  some  heavy  body. 
Next  instant  a  huge  yellow  figure,  not  unlike  a  leaping  cata- 
mount, plunged  down  with  a  roar  so  terrible  as  to  sound  in- 
human. Legget,  Indians,  and  newcomer  rolled  along  the  declivity 
toward  the  brook  in  an  indistinguishable  mass. 

Two  of  the  savages  shook  themselves  free,  and  bounded  to 
their  feet  nimbly  as  cats,  but  Legget  and  the  other  redskin 
became  engaged  in  a  terrific  combat.  It  was  a  wrestling  whirl, 
so  fierce  and  rapid  as  to  render  blows  ineffectual.  The  leaves 
scattered  as  if  in  a  whirlwind.  Legget's  fury  must  have  been 
awful,  to  judge  from  his  hoarse  screams;  the  Indians'  fear  mad- 
dening, as  could  be  told  by  their  shrieks.  The  two  savages  ran 
wildly  about  the  combatants,  one  trying  to  level  a  rifle,  the  other 
to  get  in  a  blow  with  a  tomahawk.  But  the  movements  of  the 
trio,  locked  in  deadly  embrace,  were  too  swift. 

Above  all  the  noise  of  the  contest  rose  that  strange,  thrilling 
roar. 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  227 

"Wetzel!"  muttered  Brandt,  with  a  chill,  creeping  shudder  as 
he  gazed  upon  the  strife  with  fascinated  eyes. 

"Bang!"  Again  from  the  cliff  came  that  heavy  bellow. 

The  savage  with  the  rifle  shrunk  back  as  if  stung,  and  without 
a  cry  fell  limply  in  a  heap.  His  companion,  uttering  a  frightened 
cry,  fled  from  the  glen. 

The  struggle  seemed  too  deadly,  too  terrible,  to  last  long.  The 
Indian  and  the  outlaw  were  at  a  disadvantage.  They  could  not 
strike  freely.  The  whirling  conflict  grew  more  fearful.  During 
one  second  the  huge,  brown,  bearish  figure  of  Legget  appeared 
on  top;  then  the  dark-bodied,  half -naked  savage,  spotted  like  a 
hyena,  and  finally  the  lithe,  powerful,  tiger-shape  of  the  border- 
man. 

Finally  Legget  wrenched  himself  free  at  the  same  instant  that 
the  bloody-stained  Indian  rolled,  writhing  in  convulsions,  away 
from  Wetzel.  The  outlaw  dashed  with  desperate  speed  up  the 
trail,  and  disappeared  in  the  gorge.  The  borderman  sped  toward 
the  cliff,  leaped  on  a  projecting  ledge,  grasped  an  overhanging 
branch,  and  pulled  himself  up.  He  was  out  of  sight  almost  as 
quickly  as  Legget. 

"After  his  rifle,"  Brandt  muttered,  and  then  realized  that  he 
had  watched  the  encounter  without  any  idea  of  aiding  his  com- 
rade. He  consoled  himself  with  the  knowledge  that  such  an 
attempt  would  have  been  useless.  From  the  moment  the  border- 
man sprang  upon  Legget,  until  he  scaled  the  cliff,  his  movements 
had  been  incredibly  swift.  It  would  have  been  hardly  possible  to 
cover  him  with  a  rifle,  and  the  outlaw  grimly  understood  that  he 
needed  to  be  careful  of  that  charge  in  his  weapon. 

"By  Heavens,  Wetzel's  a  wonder!"  cried  Brandt  in  unwilling 
admiration.  "Now  he'll  go  after  Legget  and  the  redskin,  while 
Zane  stays  here  to  get  me.  Well,  he'll  succeed,  most  likely,  but 
I'll  never  quit.  What's  this?" 


228  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

He  felt  something  slippery  and  warm  on  his  hand.  It  was 
blood  running  from  the  inside  of  his  sleeve.  A  slight  pain  made 
itself  felt  in  his  side.  Upon  examination  he  found,  to  his  dismay, 
that  his  wound  had  reopened.  With  a  desperate  curse  he  pulled 
a  linsey  jacket  off  a  peg,  tore  it  into  strips,  and  bound  up  the 
injury  as  tightly  as  possible. 

Then  he  grasped  his  rifle,  and  watched  the  cliff  and  the  gorge 
with  flaring  eyes.  Suddenly  he  found  it  difficult  to  breathe;  his 
throat  was  parched,  his  eyes  smarted.  Then  the  odor  of  wood- 
smoke  brought  him  to  a  realization  that  the  cabin  was  burning. 
It  was  only  now  he  understood  that  the  room  was  full  of  blue 
clouds.  He  sank  into  the  corner,  a  wolf  at  bay. 

Not  many  moments  passed  before  the  outlaw  understood  that 
he  could  not  withstand  the  increasing  heat  and  stifling  vapor  of 
the  room.  Pieces  of  burning  birch  dropped  from  the  roof.  The 
crackling  above  grew  into  a  steady  roar. 

"I've  got  to  run  for  it,"  he  gasped.  Death  awaited  him  outside 
the  door,  but  that  was  more  acceptable  than  death  by  fire.  Yet 
to  face  the  final  moment  when  he  desired  with  all  his  soul  to 
live,  required  almost  super-human  courage.  Sweating,  panting, 
he  glared  around.  "God!  Is  there  no  other  way?"  he  cried  in 
agony.  At  this  moment  he  saw  an  ax  on  the  floor. 

Seizing  it  he  attacked  the  wall  of  the  cabin.  Beyond  this  parti- 
tion was  a  hut  which  had  been  used  for  a  stable.  Half  a  dozen 
strokes  of  the  ax  opened  a  hole  large  enough  for  him  to  pass 
through.  With  his  rifle,  and  a  piece  of  venison  which  hung  near, 
he  literally  fell  through  the  hole,  where  he  lay  choking,  almost 
fainting.  After  a  time  he  crawled  across  the  floor  to  a  door.  Out- 
side was  a  dense  laurel  thicket,  into  which  he  crawled. 

The  crackling  and  roaring  of  the  fire  grew  louder.  He  could 
see  the  column  of  yellow  and  black  smoke.  Once  fairly  under 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  22p 

way,  the  flames  rapidly  consumed  the  pitch-pine  logs.  In  an  hour 
Legget's  cabins  were  a  heap  of  ashes. 

The  afternoon  waned.  Brandt  lay  watchful,  slowly  recovering 
his  strength.  He  felt  secure  under  this  cover,  and  only  prayed 
for  night  to  come.  As  the  shadows  began  to  creep  down  the 
sides  of  the  cliffs,  he  indulged  in  hope.  If  he  could  slip  out  in 
the  dark  he  had  a  good  chance  to  elude  the  borderman.  In  the 
passionate  desire  to  escape,  he  had  forgotten  his  fatalistic  words 
to  Legget.  He  reasoned  that  he  could  not  be  trailed  until  day- 
light; that  a  long  night's  march  would  put  him  far  in  the  lead, 
and  there  was  just  a  possibility  of  Zane's  having  gone  away  with 
Wetzel. 

When  darkness  had  set  in  he  slipped  out  of  the  covert  and 
began  his  journey  for  life.  Within  a  few  yards  he  reached  the 
brook.  He  had  only  to  follow  its  course  in  order  to  find  the  out- 
let to  the  glen.  Moreover,  its  rush  and  gurgle  over  the  stones 
would  drown  any  slight  noise  he  might  make. 

Slowly,  patiently  he  crawled,  stopping  every  moment  to  listen. 
What  a  long  time  he  was  in  coming  to  the  mossy  stones  over 
which  the  brook  dashed  through  the  gorge!  But  he  reached  them 
at  last.  Here  if  anywhere  Zane  would  wait  for  him. 

With  teeth  clenched  desperately,  and  an  inward  tightening  of 
his  chest,  for  at  any  moment  he  expected  to  see  the  red  flame  of 
a  rifle,  he  slipped  cautiously  over  the  mossy  stones.  Finally  his 
hands  touched  the  dewy  grass,  and  a  breath  of  cool  wind  fanned 
his  hot  cheek.  He  had  succeeded  in  reaching  the  open.  Crawling 
some  rods  farther  on,  he  lay  still  a  while  and  listened.  The  solemn 
wilderness  calm  was  unbroken.  Rising,  he  peered  about.  Behind 
loomed  the  black  hill  with  its  narrow  cleft  just  discernible.  Fac- 
ing the  north  star,  he  went  silently  out  into  the  darkness. 


230  THE  LAST  TRAIL 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


AT  DAYLIGHT  Jonathan  Zane  rolled  from  his  snug  bed  of  leaves 
under  the  side  of  a  log,  and  with  the  flint,  steel  and  punk  he 
always  carried,  began  building  a  fire.  His  actions  were  far  from 
being  hurried.  They  were  deliberate,  and  seemed  strange  on  the 
part  of  a  man  whose  stern  face  suggested  some  dark  business  to 
be  done.  When  his  little  fire  had  been  made,  he  warmed 
some  slices  of  venison  which  had  already  been  cooked,  and  thus 
satisfied  his  hunger.  Carefully  extinguishing  the  fire  and  looking 
to  the  priming  of  his  rifle,  he  was  ready  for  the  trail. 

He  stood  near  the  edge  of  the  cliff  from  which  he  could  com- 
mand a  view  of  the  glen.  The  black,  smoldering  ruins  of  the 
burned  cabins  defaced  a  picturesque  scene. 

"Brandt  must  have  lit  out  last  night,  for  I  could  have  seen  even 
a  rabbit  hidin'  in  that  laurel  patch.  He's  gone,  an'  it's  what  I 
wanted,"  thought  the  borderman. 

He  made  his  way  slowly  around  the  edge  of  the  inclosure  and 
clambered  down  on  the  splintered  cliff  at  the  end  of  the  gorge. 
A  wide,  well-trodden  trail  extended  into  the  forest  below.  Jona- 
than gave  scarcely  a  glance  to  the  beaten  path  before  him;  but 
bent  keen  eyes  to  the  north,  and  carefully  scrutinized  the  mossy 
stones  along  the  brook.  Upon  a  little  sand  bar  running  out  from 
the  bank  he  found  the  light  imprint  of  a  hand. 

"It  was  a  black  night.  He'd  have  to  travel  by  the  stars,  an* 
north's  the  only  safe  direction  for  him,"  muttered  the  border- 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  23! 

On  the  bank  above  he  found  oblong  indentations  in  the  grass, 
barely  perceptible,  but  owing  to  the  peculiar  position  of  the 
blades  of  grass,  easy  for  him  to  follow. 

"He'd  better  have  learned  to  walk  light  as  an  Injun  before  he 
took  to  outlawin',"  said  the  borderman  in  disdain.  Then  he  re- 
turned to  the  gorge  and  entered  the  inclosure.  At  the  foot  of 
the  little  rise  of  ground  where  Wetzel  had  leaped  upon  his 
quarry,  was  one  of  the  dead  Indians.  Another  lay  partly  sub- 
merged in  the  brown  water. 

Jonathan  carried  the  weapons  of  the  savages  to  a  dry  place 
under  a  projecting  ledge  in  the  cliff.  Passing  on  down  the  glen, 
he  stopped  a  moment  where  the  cabins  had  stood.  Not  a  log  re- 
mained. The  horses,  with  the  exception  of  two,  were  tethered 
in  the  copse  of  laurel.  He  recognized  Colonel  Zane's  thorough- 
bred, and  Betty's  pony.  He  cut  them  loose,  positive  they  would 
not  stray  from  the  glen,  and  might  easily  be  secured  at  another 
time. 

He  set  out  upon  the  trail  of  Brandt  with  a  long,  swinging 
stride.  To  him  the  outcome  of  that  pursuit  was  but  a  question  of 
time.  The  consciousness  of  superior  endurance,  speed,  and  craft, 
spoke  in  his  every  movement.  The  consciousness  of  being  in 
right,  a  factor  so  powerfully  potent  for  victory,  spoke  in  the 
intrepid  front  with  which  he  faced  the  north. 

It  was  a  gloomy  November  day.  Gray,  steely  clouds  drifted 
overhead.  The  wind  wailed  through  the  bare  trees,  sending  dead 
leaves  scurrying  and  rustling  over  the  brown  earth. 

The  borderman  advanced  with  a  step  that  covered  glade  and 
glen,  forest  and  field,  with  astonishing  swiftness.  Long  since  he 
had  seen  that  Brandt  was  holding  to  the  lowland.  This  did  not 
strike  him  as  singular  until  for  the  third  time  he  found  the  trail 
lead  a  short  distance  up  the  side  of  a  ridge,  then  descend,  seeking 


232  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

a  level.  With  this  discovery  came  the  certainty  that  Brandt's  pace 
was  lessening.  He  had  set  out  with  a  hunter's  stride,  but  it  had 
begun  to  shorten.  The  outlaw  had  shirked  the  hills,  and  shifted 
from  his  northern  course.  Why?  The  man  was  weakening;  he 
could  not  climb;  he  was  favoring  a  wound. 

What  seemed  more  serious  for  the  outlaw,  was  the  fact  that  he 
had  left  a  good  trail,  and  entered  the  low,  wild  land  north  of 
the  Ohio.  Even  the  Indians  seldom  penetrated  this  tangled  belt 
of  laurel  and  thorn.  Owing  to  the  dry  season  the  swamps  were 
shallow,  which  was  another  factor  against  Brandt.  No  doubt  he 
had  hoped  to  hide  his  trail  by  wading,  and  here  it  showed  up 
like  the  track  of  a  bison. 

Jonathan  kept  steadily  on,  knowing  the  farther  Brandt  pene- 
trated into  this  wilderness  the  worse  off  he  would  be.  The  out- 
law dared  not  take  to  the  river  until  below  Fort  Henry,  which 
was  distant  many  a  weary  mile.  The  trail  grew  more  ragged  as 
the  afternoon  wore  away.  When  twilight  rendered  further  track- 
ing impossible,  the  borderman  built  a  fire  in  a  sheltered  place, 
ate  his  supper,  and  went  to  sleep. 

In  the  dim,  gray  morning  light  he  awoke,  fancying  he  had 
been  startled  by  a  distant  rifle  shot.  He  roasted  his  strips  of 
venison  carefully,  and  ate  with  a  hungry  hunter's  appreciation, 
yet  sparingly,  as  befitted  a  borderman  who  knew  how  to  keep 
up  his  strength  upon  a  long  trail. 

Hardly  had  he  traveled  a  mile  when  Brandt's  footprints  cov- 
ered another's.  Nothing  surprised  the  borderman;  but  he  had 
expected  this  least  of  all.  A  hasty  examination  convinced  him 
that  Legget  and  his  Indian  ally  had  fled  this  way  with  Wetzel 
in  pursuit. 

The  morning  passed  slowly.  The  borderman  kept  to  the  trail 
like  a  hound.  The  afternoon  wore  on.  Over  sandy  reaches  thick 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  233 

with  willows,  and  through  long,  matted,  dried-out  cranberry 
marshes  and  copses  of  prickly  thorn,  the  borderman  hung  to  his 
purpose.  His  legs  seemed  never  to  lose  their  spring,  but  his  chest 
began  to  heave,  his  head  bent,  and  his  face  shone  with  sweat. 

At  dusk  he  tired.  Crawling  into  a  dry  thicket,  he  ate  his  scanty 
meal  and  fell  asleep.  When  he  awoke  it  was  gray  daylight.  He 
was  wet  and  chilled.  Again  he  kindled  a  fire,  and  sat  over  it 
while  cooking  breakfast. 

Suddenly  he  was  brought  to  his  feet  by  the  sound  of  a  rifle 
shot;  then  two  others  followed  in  rapid  succession.  Though  they 
were  faint,  and  far  away  to  the  west,  Jonathan  recognized  the 
first,  which  could  have  come  only  from  Wetzel's  weapon,  and 
he  felt  reasonably  certain  of  the  third,  which  was  Brandt's. 
There  might  have  been,  he  reflected  grimly,  a  good  reason  for 
Legget's  not  shooting.  However,  he  knew  that  Wetzel  had 
rounded  up  the  fugitives,  and  again  he  set  out. 

It  was  another  dismal  day,  such  a  one  as  would  be  fitting  for  a 
dark  deed  of  border  justice.  A  cold,  drizzly  rain  blew  from  the 
northwest.  Jonathan  wrapped  a  piece  of  oil-skin  around  his  rifle, 
breech,  and  faced  the  downfall.  Soon  he  was  wet  to  the  skin. 
He  kept  on,  but  his  free  stride  had  shortened.  Even  upon  his 
iron  muscles  this  soggy,  sticky  ground  had  begun  to  tell. 

The  morning  passed  but  the  storm  did  not;  the  air  grew  colder 
and  darker.  The  short  afternoon  would  afford  him  little  time, 
especially  as  the  rain  and  running  rills  of  water  were  obliterating 
the  trail. 

In  the  midst  of  a  dense  forest  of  great  cottonwoods  and  syca- 
mores he  came  upon  a  little  pond,  hidden  among  the  bushes,  and 
shrouded  in  a  windy,  wet  gloom.  Jonathan  recognized  the  place. 
He  had  been  there  in  winter  hunting  bears  when  all  the  swamp- 
land was  locked  by  ice. 


234  ™E  LAST  TRAIL 

The  borderman  searched  along  the  banks  for  a  time,  then  went 
back  to  the  trail,  patiently  following  it.  Around  the  pond  it  led 
to  the  side  of  a  great,  shelving  rock.  He  saw  an  Indian  leaning 
against  this,  and  was  about  to  throw  forward  his  rifle  when  the 
strange,  fixed,  position  of  the  savage  told  of  the  tragedy.  A 
wound  extended  from  his  shoulder  to  his  waist.  Near  by  on  the 
ground  lay  Legget.  He,  too,  was  dead.  His  gigantic  frame  wel- 
tered in  blood.  His  big  feet  were  wide  apart;  his  arms  spread, 
and  from  the  middle  of  his  chest  protruded  the  haft  of  a  knife. 

The  level  space  surrounding  the  bodies  showed  evidence  of  a 
desperate  struggle.  A  bush  had  been  rolled  upon  and  crushed  by 
heavy  bodies.  On  the  ground  was  blood  as  on  the  stones  and 
leaves.  The  blade  Legget  still  clutched  was  red,  and  the  wrist  of 
the  hand  which  held  it  showed  a  dark,  discolored  band,  where  it 
had  felt  the  relentless  grasp  of  Wetzel's  steel  grip.  The  dead 
man's  buckskin  coat  was  cut  into  ribbons.  On  his  broad  face  a 
demoniacal  expression  had  set  in  eternal  rigidity;  the  animal 
terror  of  death  was  frozen  in  his  wide  staring  eyes.  The  outlaw 
chief  had  died  as  he  had  lived,  desperately. 

Jonathan  found  Wetzel's  trail  leading  directly  toward  the  river, 
and  soon  understood  that  the  borderman  was  on  the  track  of 
Brandt.  The  borderman  had  surprised  the  worn,  starved,  sleepy 
fugitives  in  the  gray,  misty  dawn.  The  Indian,  doubtless,  was 
the  sentinel,  and  had  fallen  asleep  at  his  post  never  to  awaken. 
Legget  and  Brandt  must  have  discharged  their  weapons  in- 
effectually. Zane  could  not  understand  why  his  comrade  had 
missed  Brandt  at  a  few  rods'  distance.  Perhaps  he  had  wounded 
the  younger  outlaw;  but  certainly  he  had  escaped  while  Wetzel 
had  closed  in  on  Legget  to  meet  the  hardest  battle  of  his  career. 

While  going  over  his  version  of  the  attack,  Jonathan  followed 
Brandt's  trail,  as  had  Wetzel,  to  where  it  ended  in  the  river.  The 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  235 

old  borderman  had  continued  on  down  stream  along  the  sandy 
shore.  The  outlaw  remained  in  the  water  to  hide  his  trail. 

At  one  point  Wetzel  turned  north.  This  move  puzzled  Jona- 
than, as  did  also  the  peculiar  tracks.  It  was  more  perplexing 
because  not  far  below  Zane  discovered  where  the  fugitive  had 
left  the  water  to  get  around  a  ledge  of  rock. 

The  trail  was  approaching  Fort  Henry.  Jonathan  kept  on  down 
the  river  until  arriving  at  the  head  of  the  island  which  lay  oppo- 
site the  settlement.  Still  no  traces  of  Wetzel!  Here  Zane  lost 
Brandt's  trail  completely.  He  waded  the  first  channel,  which  was 
shallow  and  narrow,  and  hurried  across  the  island.  Walking  out 
upon  a  sand-bar  he  signaled  with  his  well-known  Indian  cry. 
Almost  immediately  came  an  answering  shout. 

While  waiting  he  glanced  at  the  sand,  and  there,  pointing 
straight  toward  the  fort,  he  found  Brandt's  straggling  trail! 


CHAPTER  XXIV 


COLONEL  ZANE  paced  to  and  fro  on  the  porch.  His  genial  smile 
had  not  returned;  he  was  grave  and  somber.  Information  had 
just  reached  him  that  Jonathan  had  hailed  from  the  island,  and 
that  one  of  the  settlers  had  started  across  the  river  in  a  boat. 

Betty  came  out  accompanied  by  Mrs.  Zane. 

"What's  this  I  hear?"  asked  Betty,  flashing  an  anxious  glance 
toward  the  river.  "Has  Jack  really  come  in?" 

"Yes,"  replied  the  colonel,  pointing  to  a  throng  of  men  on  the 
river  bank. 

"Now  there'll  be  trouble,"  said  Mrs.  Zane  nervously.  "I  wish 


236  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

with  all  my  heart  Brandt  had  not  thrown  himself,  as  he  called  it, 
on  your  mercy." 

"So  do  I,"  declared  Colonel  Zane. 

"What  will  be  done?"  she  asked.  "There!  that's  Jack!  Silas 
has  hold  of  his  arm." 

"He's  lame.  He  has  been  hurt,"  replied  her  husband. 

A  little  procession  of  men  and  boys  followed  the  borderman 
from  the  river,  and  from  the  cabins  appeared  the  settlers  and 
their  wives.  But  there  was  no  excitement  except  among  the  chil- 
dren. The  crowd  filed  into  the  colonel's  yard  behind  Jonathan 
and  Silas. 

Colonel  Zane  silently  greeted  his  brother  with  an  iron  grip  of 
the  hand  which  was  more  expressive  than  words.  No  unusual 
sight  was  it  to  see  the  borderman  wet,  ragged,  bloody,  worn 
with  long  marches,  hollow-eyed  and  gloomy;  yet  he  had  never 
before  presented  such  an  appearance  at  Fort  Henry.  Betty  ran 
forward,  and,  though  she  clasped  his  arm,  shrank  back.  There 
was  that  in  the  borderman's  presence  to  cause  fear. 

"Wetzel?"  Jonathan  cried  sharply. 

The  colonel  raised  both  hands,  palms  open,  and  returned  his 
brother's  keen  glance.  Then  he  spoke.  "Lew  hasn't  come  in.  He 
chased  Brandt  across  the  river.  That's  all  I  know." 

"Brandt's  here,  then?"  hissed  the  borderman. 

The  colonel  nodded  gloomily. 

"Where?" 

"In  the  long  room  over  the  fort.  I  locked  him  in  there." 

"Why  did  he  come  here?" 

Colonel  Zane  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "It's  beyond  me.  He 
said  he'd  rather  place  himself  in  my  hands  than  be  run  down  by 
Wetzel  or  you.  He  didn't  crawl;  I'll  say  that  for  him.  He  just 
said,  'I'm  your  prisoner.'  He's  in  pretty  bad  shape;  barked  over 


'[HE  LAST  TRAIL  237 

the  temple,  lame  in  one  foot,  cut  under  the  arm,  starved  and 
worn  out." 

"Take  me  to  him,"  said  the  borderman,  and  he  threw  his  rifle 
on  a  bench. 

"Very  well.  Come  along,"  replied  the  colonel.  He  frowned  at 
those  following  them.  "Here,  you  women,  clear  out!"  But  they 
did  not  obey  him. 

It  was  a  sober-faced  group  that  marched  in  through  the  big 
stockade  gate,  under  the  huge,  bulging  front  of  the  fort,  and  up 
the  rough  stairway.  Colonel  Zane  removed  a  heavy  bar  from 
before  a  door,  and  thrust  it  open  with  his  foot.  The  long  guard- 
room brilliantly  lighted  by  sunshine  coming  through  the  port- 
holes, was  empty  save  for  a  ragged  man  lying  on  a  bench. 

The  noise  aroused  him;  he  sat  up,  and  then  slowly  labored  to 
his  feet.  It  was  the  same  flaring,  wild-eyed  Brandt,  only  fiercer 
and  more  haggard.  He  wore  a  bloody  bandage  round  his  head. 
When  he  saw  the  borderman  he  backed,  with  involuntary,  in- 
stinctive action,  against  the  wall,  yet  showed  no  fear. 

In  the  dark  glance  Jonathan  shot  at  Brandt  shone  a  pitiless 
implacability;  no  scorn,  nor  hate,  nor  passion,  but  something 
which,  had  it  not  been  so  terrible,  might  have  been  justice. 

"I  think  Wetzel  was  hurt  in  the  fight  with  Legget,"  said  Jona- 
than deliberately,  "an'  ask  if  you  know?" 

"I  believe  he  was,"  replied  Brandt  readily.  "I  was  asleep  when 
he  jumped  us,  and  was  awakened  by  the  Indian's  yell.  Wetzel 
must  have  taken  a  snap  shot  at  me  as  I  was  getting  up,  which 
accounts,  probably,  for  my  being  alive.  I  fell,  but  did  not  lose 
consciousness.  I  heard  Wetzel  and  Legget  fighting,  and  at  last 
struggled  to  my  feet.  Although  dizzy  and  bewildered,  I  could  see 
to  shoot;  but  missed.  For  a  long  time,  it  seemed  to  me,  I  watched 
that  terrible  fight,  and  then  ran,  finally  reaching  the  river,  where 
I  recovered  somewhat" 


238  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

"Did  you  see  Wetzel  again?" 

"Once,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  behind  me.  He  was  stagger- 
ing along  on  my  trail." 

At  this  juncture  there  was  a  commotion  among  the  settlers 
crowding  behind  Colonel  Zane  and  Jonathan,  and  Helen  Shep- 
pard  appeared,  white,  with  her  big  eyes  strangely  dilated. 

"Oh!"  she  cried  breathlessly,  clasping  both  hands  around 
Jonathan's  arm.  "I'm  not  too  late?  You're  not  going  to " 

"Helen,  this  is  no  place  for  you,"  said  Colonel  Zane  sternly. 
"This  is  business  for  men.  You  must  not  interfere." 

Helen  gazed  at  him,  at  Brandt,  and  then  up  at  the  borderman. 
She  did  not  loose  his  arm. 

"Outside  some  one  told  me  you  intended  to  shoot  him.  Is  it 
true?" 

Colonel  Zane  evaded  the  searching  gaze  of  those  strained, 
brilliant  eyes.  Nor  did  he  answer. 

As  Helen  stepped  slowly  back  a  hush  fell  upon  the  crowd. 
The  whispering,  the  nervous  coughing,  and  shuffling  of  feet, 
ceased. 

In  those  around  her  Helen  saw  the  spirit  of  the  border.  Colonel 
Zane  and  Silas  wore  the  same  look,  cold,  hard,  almost  brutal. 
The  women  were  strangely  grave.  Nellie  Douns'  sweet  face 
seemed  changed;  there  was  pity,  even  suffering  on  it,  but  no 
relenting.  Even  Betty's  face,  always  so  warm,  piquant,  and  whole- 
some, had  taken  on  a  shade  of  doubt,  of  gloom,  of  something 
almost  sullen,  which  blighted  its  dark  beauty.  What  hurt  Helen 
most  cruelly  was  the  borderman's  glittering  eyes. 

She  fought  against  a  shuddering  weakness  which  threatened 
to  overcome  her. 

"Whose  prisoner  is  Brandt?"  she  asked  of  Colonel  Zane. 

"He  gave  himself  up  to  me,  naturally,  as  I  am  in  authority 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  239 

here,"  replied  the  colonel.  "But  that  signifies  little.  I  can  do  no 
less  than  abide  by  Jonathan's  decree,  which,  after  all,  is  the  decree 
of  the  border." 

"And  that  is?" 

"Death  to  outlaws  and  renegades." 

"But  cannot  you  spare  him?"  implored  Helen.  "I  know  he  is  a 
bad  man;  but  he  might  become  a  better  one.  It  seems  like  murder 
to  me.  To  kill  him  in  cold  blood,  wounded,  suffering  as  he  is, 
when  he  claimed  your  mercy.  Oh!  it  is  dreadful!" 

The  usually  kind-hearted  colonel,  soft  as  wax  in  the  hands  of 
a  girl,  was  now  colder  and  harder  than  flint. 

"It  is  useless,"  he  replied  curtly.  "I  am  sorry  for  you.  We  all 
understand  your  feelings,  that  yours  are  not  the  principles  of  the 
border.  If  you  had  lived  long  here  you  could  appreciate  what 
these  outlaws  and  renegades  have  done  to  us.  This  man  is  a 
hardened  criminal;  he  is  a  thief,  a  murderer." 

"He  did  not  kill  Mordaunt,"  replied  Helen  quickly.  "I  saw 
him  draw  first  and  attack  Brandt." 

"No  matter.  Come,  Helen,  cease.  No  more  of  this,"  Colonel 
Zane  cried  with  impatience. 

"But  I  will  not!"  exclaimed  Helen,  with  ringing  voice  and 
flashing  eye.  She  turned  to  her  girl  friends  and  besought  them  to 
intercede  for  the  outlaw.  But  Nell  only  looked  sorrowfully  on, 
while  Betty  met  her  appealing  glance  with  a  fire  in  her  eyes  that 
was  no  dim  reflection  of  her  brother's. 

"Then  I  must  make  my  appeal  to  you,"  said  Helen,  facing  the 
borderman.  There  could  be  no  mistaking  how  she  regarded  him. 
Respect,  honor  and  love  breathed  from  every  line  of  her  beautiful 
face. 

"Why  do  you  want  him  to  go  free?"  demanded  Jonathan.  "You 
told  me  to  kill  him." 


240  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

"Oh,  I  know.  But  I  was  not  in  my  right  mind.  Listen  to  me, 
please.  He  must  have  been  very  different  once;  perhaps  had 
sisters.  For  their  sake  give  him  another  chance.  I  know  he  has  a 
better  nature.  I  feared  him,  hated  him,  scorned  him,  as  if  he  were 
a  snake,  yet  he  saved  me  from  that  monster  Legget!" 

"For  himself!" 

"Well,  yes,  I  can't  deny  that.  But  he  could  have  ruined  me, 
wrecked  me,  yet  he  did  not.  At  least,  he  meant  marriage  by  me. 
He  said  if  I  would  marry  him  he  would  flee  over  the  border  and 
be  an  honest  man." 

"Have  you  no  other  reason?" 

"Yes."  Helen's  bosom  swelled  and  a  glory  shone  in  her  splen- 
did eyes.  "The  other  reason  is,  my  own  happiness!" 

Plain  to  all,  if  not  through  her  words,  from  the  light  in  her 
eyes,  that  she  could  not  love  a  man  who  was  a  party  to  what  she 
considered  injustice. 

The  borderman's  white  face  became  flaming  red. 

It  was  difficult  to  refuse  this  glorious  girl  any  sacrifice  she 
demanded  for  the  sake  of  the  love  so  openly  avowed. 

Sweetly  and  pityingly  she  turned  to  Brandt:  "Will  not  you 
help  me?" 

"Lass,  if  it  were  for  me  you  were  asking  my  life  I'd  swear  it 
yours  for  always,  and  I'd  be  a  man,"  he  replied  with  bitterness; 
"but  not  to  save  my  soul  would  I  ask  anything  of  him." 

The  giant  passions,  hate  and  jealousy,  flamed  in  his  gray  eyes. 

"If  I  persuade  them  to  release  you,  will  you  go  away,  leave  this 
country,  and  never  come  back?" 

"I'll  promise  that,  lass,  and  honestly,"  he  replied. 

She  wheeled  toward  Jonathan,  and  now  the  rosy  color  chased 
the  pallor  from  her  cheeks. 

"Jack,  do  you  remember  when  we  parted  at  my  home;  when 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  24! 

you  left  on  this  terrible  trail,  now  ended,  thank  God!  Do  you 
remember  what  an  ordeal  that  was  for  me?  Must  I  go  through 
it  again?" 

Bewitchingly  sweet  she  was  then,  with  the  girlish  charm  of 
coquetry  almost  lost  in  the  deeper,  stranger  power  of  the  woman. 

The  borderman  drew  his  breath  sharply;  then  he  wrapped  his 
long  arms  closely  round  her.  She,  understanding  that  victory  was 
hers,  sank  weeping  upon  his  breast.  For  a  moment  he  bowed 
his  face  over  her,  and  when  he  lifted  it  the  dark  and  terrible 
gloom  had  gone. 

"Eb,  let  him  go,  an'  at  once,"  ordered  Jonathan.  "Give  him  a 
rifle,  some  meat,  an'  a  canoe,  for  he  can't  travel,  an'  turn  him 
loose.  Only  be  quick  about  it,  because  if  Wetzel  comes  in,  God 
himself  couldn't  save  the  outlaw." 

It  was  an  indescribable  glance  that  Brandt  cast  upon  the  tearful 
face  of  the  girl  who  had  saved  his  life.  But  without  a  word  he 
followed  Colonel  Zane  from  the  room. 

The  crowd  slowly  filed  down  the  steps.  Betty  and  Nell  lingered 
behind,  their  eyes  beaming  through  happy  tears.  Jonathan,  long 
so  cold,  showed  evidence  of  becoming  as  quick  and  passionate 
a  lover  as  he  had  been  a  borderman.  At  least,  Helen  had  to 
release  herself  from  his  embrace,  and  it  was  a  blushing,  tear- 
stained  face  she  turned  to  her  friends. 

When  they  reached  the  stockade  gate  Colonel  Zane  was  hurry- 
ing toward  the  river  with  a  bag  in  one  hand,  and  a  rifle  and  a 
paddle  in  the  other.  Brandt  limped  along  after  him,  the  two 
disappearing  over  the  river  bank. 

Betty,  Nell,  and  the  lovers  went  to  the  edge  of  the  bluff. 

They  saw  Colonel  Zane  choose  a  canoe  from  among  a  number 
on  the  beach.  He  launched  it,  deposited  the  bag  in  the  bottom, 
handed  the  rifle  and  paddle  to  Brandt,  and  wheeled  about. 


242  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

The  outlaw  stepped  aboard,  and,  pushing  off  slowly,  drifted 
down  and  out  toward  mid-stream.  When  about  fifty  yards  from 
shore  he  gave  a  quick  glance  around,  and  ceased  paddling.  His 
face  gleamed  white,  and  his  eyes  glinted  like  bits  of  steel  in  the 
sun. 

Suddenly  he  grasped  the  rifle,  and,  leveling  it  with  the  swift- 
ness of  thought,  fired  at  Jonathan. 

The  borderman  saw  the  act,  even  from  the  beginning,  and 
must  have  read  the  outlaw's  motive,  for  as  the  weapon  flashed 
he  dropped  flat  on  the  bank.  The  bullet  sang  harmlessly  over 
him,  imbedding  itself  in  the  stockade  fence  with  a  distinct  thud. 

The  girls  were  so  numb  with  horror  that  they  could  not  even 
scream. 

Colonel  Zane  swore  lustily.  "Where's  my  gun  ?  Get  me  a  gun. 
Oh!  What  did  I  tell  you?" 

"Look!"  cried  Jonathan  as  he  rose  to  his  feet. 

Upon  the  sand-bar  opposite  stood  a  tall,  dark,  familiar  figure. 

"By  all  that's  holy,  Wetzel!"  exclaimed  Colonel  Zane. 

They  saw  the  giant  borderman  raise  a  long,  black  rifle,  which 
wavered  and  fell,  and  rose  again.  A  little  puff  of  white  smoke 
leaped  out,  accompanied  by  a  clear,  stinging  report. 

Brandt  dropped  the  paddle  he  had  hurriedly  begun  plying 
after  his  traitor's  act.  His  white  face  was  turned  toward  the 
shore  as  it  sank  forward  to  rest  at  last  upon  the  gunwale  of  the 
canoe.  Then  his  body  slowly  settled,  as  if  seeking  repose.  His 
hand  trailed  outside  in  the  water,  drooping  inert  and  lifeless. 
The  little  craft  drifted  down  stream. 

"You  see,  Helen,  it  had  to  be,"  said  Colonel  Zane  gently. 
"What  a  dastard!  A  long  shot,  Jack!  Fate  itself  must  have 
glanced  down  the  sights  of  Wetzel's  rifle." 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  243 


CHAPTER  XXV 


A  YEAR  rolled  round;  once  again  Indian  summer  veiled  the 
golden  fields  and  forests  in  a  soft,  smoky  haze.  Once  more  from 
the  opal-blue  sky  of  autumn  nights,  shone  the  great  white  stars, 
and  nature  seemed  wrapped  in  a  melancholy  hush. 

November  the  third  was  the  anniversary  of  a  memorable  event 
on  the  frontier — the  marriage  of  the  younger  borderman. 

Colonel  Zane  gave  it  the  name  of  "Independence  Day,"  and 
arranged  a  holiday,  a  feast  and  dance  where  all  the  settlement 
might  meet  in  joyful  thankfulness  for  the  first  year  of  freedom 
on  the  border. 

With  the  wiping  out  of  Legget's  fierce  band,  the  yoke  of  the 
renegades  and  outlaws  was  thrown  off  forever.  Simon  Girty 
migrated  to  Canada  and  lived  with  a  few  Indians  who  remained 
true  to  him.  His  confederates  slowly  sank  into  oblivion.  The 
Shawnee  tribe  sullenly  retreated  westward,  far  into  the  interior 
of  Ohio;  the  Delawares  buried  the  war  hatchet,  and  smoked  the 
pipe  of  peace  they  had  ever  before  refused.  For  them  the  dark, 
mysterious,  fatal  wind  had  ceased  to  moan  along  the  trails,  or 
sigh  through  tree-tops  over  lonely  Indian  camp-fires. 

The  beautiful  Ohio  valley  had  been  wrested  from  the  savages 
and  from  those  parasites  who  for  years  had  hung  around  the 
necks  of  the  red  men. 

This  day  was  the  happiest  of  Colonel  Zane's  life.  The  task 
he  had  set  himself,  and  which  he  had  hardly  ever  hoped  to  see 
completed,  was  ended.  The  West  had  been  won.  What  Boone 


244  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

achieved  in  Kentucky  he  had  accomplished  in  Ohio  and  West 
Virginia. 

The  feast  was  spread  on  the  colonel's  lawn.  Every  man,  woman 
and  child  in  the  settlement  was  there.  Isaac  Zane,  with  his  In- 
dian wife  and  child,  had  come  from  the  far-off  Huron  town. 
Pioneers  from  Yellow  Creek  and  eastward  to  Fort  Pitt  attended. 
The  spirit  of  the  occasion  manifested  itself  in  such  joyousness  as 
'had  never  before  been  experienced  in  Fort  Henry.  The  great 
feast  was  equal  to  the  event.  Choice  cuts  of  beef  and  venison, 
savory  viands,  wonderful  loaves  of  bread  and  great  plump  pies, 
sweet  cider  and  old  wine,  delighted  the  merry  party. 

"Friends,  neighbors,  dear  ones,"  said  Colonel  Zane,  "my  heart 
is  almost  too  full  for  speech.  This  occasion,  commemorating  the 
day  of  our  freedom  on  the  border,  is  the  beginning  of  the  reward 
for  stern  labor,  hardship,  silenced  hearths  of  long,  relentless  years. 
I  did  not  think  I'd  live  to  see  it.  The  seed  we  have  sown  has 
taken  root;  in  years  to  come,  perhaps,  a  great  people  will  grow 
up  on  these  farms  we  call  our  homes.  And  as  we  hope  those 
coming  afterward  will  remember  us,  we  should  stop  a  moment 
to  think  of  the  heroes  who  have  gone  before.  Many  there  are 
whose  names  will  never  be  written  on  the  roll  of  fame,  whose 
graves  will  be  unmarked  in  history.  But  we  who  worked,  fought, 
bled  beside  them,  who  saw  them  die  for  those  they  left  behind, 
will  render  them  all  justice,  honor  and  love.  To  them  we  give 
the  victory.  They  were  true;  then  let  us,  who  begin  to  enjoy  the 
freedom,  happiness  and  prosperity  they  won  with  their  lives, 
likewise  be  true  in  memory  of  them,  in  deed  to  ourselves,  and 
in  grace  to  God." 

By  no  means  the  least  of  the  pleasant  features  of  this  pleasant 
-lay  was  the  fact  that  three  couples  blushingly  presented  them- 
selves before  the  colonel,  and  confided  to  him  their  sudden  con- 


THE  LAST  TRAIL  245 

elusions  in  regard  to  the  felicitousness  of  the  moment.  The  happy 
colonel  raced  around  until  he  discovered  Jim  Douns,  the  minis- 
ter, and  there  amid  the  merry  throng  he  gave  the  brides  away, 
being  the  first  to  kiss  them. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  the  villagers  dispersed  to 
their  homes  and  left  the  colonel  to  his  own  circle.  With  his 
strong,  dark  face  beaming,  he  mounted  the  old  porch  step. 

"Where  are  my  Zane  babies?"  he  asked.  "Ah!  here  you  are! 
Did  anybody  ever  see  anything  to  beat  that?  Four  wonderful 
babies!  Mother,  here's  your  Daniel — if  you'd  only  named  him 
Eb!  Silas,  come  for  Silas  junior,  bad  boy  that  he  is.  Isaac,  take 
your  Indian  princess;  ah!  little  Myeerah  with  the  dusky  face. 
Woe  be  to  him  who  looks  into  those  eyes  when  you  come  to  age. 
Jack,  here's  little  Jonathan,  the  last  of  the  bordermen;  he,  too, 
has  beautiful  eyes,  big  like  his  mother's.  Ah!  well,  I  don't  believe 
I  have  left  a  wish,  unless " 

"Unless?"  suggested  Betty  with  her  sweet  smile. 

"It  might  be "  he  said  and  looked  at  her. 

Betty's  warm  cheek  was  close  to  his  as  she  whispered:  "Dear 
Eb!"  The  rest  only  the  colonel  heard. 

"Well!  By  all  that's  glorious!"  he  exclaimed,  and  attempted  to 
seize  her;  but  with  burning  face  Betty  fled. 

****** 

"Jack,  dear,  how  the  leaves  are  falling!"  exclaimed  Helen.  "See 
them  floating  and  whirling.  It  reminds  me  of  the  day  I  lay  a 
prisoner  in  the  forest  glade  praying,  waiting  for  you." 

The  borderman  was  silent. 

They  passed  down  the  sandy  lane  under  the  colored  maple 
trees,  to  a  new  cottage  on  the  hillside. 

"I  am  perfectly  happy  to-day,"  continued  Helen.  "Everybody 
seems  to  be  content,  except  you.  For  the  first  time  in  weeks  I  see 


346  THE  LAST  TRAIL 

that  shade  on  your  face,  that  look  in  your  eyes.  Jack,  you  do  not 
regret  the  new  life?" 

"My  love,  no,  a  thousand  times  no,"  he  answered,  smiling  down 
into  her  eyes.  They  were  changing,  shadowing  with  thought; 
bright  as  in  other  days,  and  with  an  added  beauty.  The  wilful 
spirit  had  been  softened  by  love. 

"Ah,  I  know,  you  miss  the  old  friend." 

The  yellow  thicket  on  the  slope  opened  to  let  out  a  tall,  dark 
man  who  came  down  with  lithe  and  springy  stride. 

"Jack,  it's  Wetzel!"  said  Helen  softly. 

No  words  were  spoken  as  the  comrades  gripped  hands. 

"Let  me  see  the  boy?"  asked  Wetzel,  turning  to  Helen. 

Little  Jonathan  blinked  up  at  the  grave  borderman  with  great 
round  eyes,  and  pulled  with  friendly,  chubby  fingers  at  the 
fringed  buckskin  coat. 

"When  you're  a  man  the  forest  trails  will  be  corn  fields,"  mut- 
tered Wetzel. 

The  bordermen  strolled  together  up  the  brown  hillside,  and 
wandered  along  the  river  bluff.  The  air  was  cool;  in  the  west 
the  ruddy  light  darkened  behind  bold  hills;  a  blue  mist  stream- 
ing in  the  valley  shaded  into  gray  as  twilight  fell. 


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